Dean of the Dead
by Michelle Knight 1188
Summary: Zombies. They show up, interrupt a hunt, bite Dean, and run off into the woods. How rude. Now Dean's infected, Sam's freaking out, and on top of everything else the two brothers have to stop the walking dead from dining on the civilians.  Brains, anyone?
1. Ambushed

**I love zombies. They make for great movies and games, so I decided to pair them up with the Winchesters to see what would happen. Enjoy. **

"Well…this looks promising," Sam said bitterly, staring around at the massive bulk of decrepit house they had the pleasure of searching.

Dean caught his frustrated expression and laughed. "You've been holding out on me, Sam. I had no idea you fancied half burned houses with god-awful bubblegum pink siding."

"Dean…"

"Should have guessed you'd want to settle down here though," Dean continued unabashed, "Your doll collection will look right at home on that spider web infested mantle over there."

"Just look for the body," Sam groaned.

"I did. It's not in this room. And I'm sorry Sammy, but I don't think we have enough stolen cash to cover the down payment."

"I'm crying inside. Look, we know the body's in here."

"Probably."

"Most definitely—"

"Which is another word for probably—"

"Would you stop acting like a two year old?"

"Would you stop acting like a 75 year old cat lover?"

"Dean!" Sam snapped, turning from his inspection of the ruined foyer to face his brother. "Focus. Please."

"Get that thing out of my eyes," Dean said, reaching out and pushing Sam's flashlight down. "Fine, fine. We'll split up and look for the body. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic."

"You want the basement or the upstairs?"

"Basement," Sam said. "If the ghost shows up, holler."

"I'm more likely to fall through the floor than holler. This place is like a thousand years old."

"Yeah, well just make sure you land on your ass, there's enough fast food padding there to save your life."

"That's not what the chicks tell me."

Sam shone the flashlight beam back into his brother's eyes.

"Sam!"

Sam laughed and shoved Dean toward the stairs. "Just go already," he said, turning and ambling toward the basement door. He heard the stairs groan as his brother began the climb to the second floor.

He noted with relief that the basement door was still unlocked and went down. He and Dean had come by to briefly look the place over a few days ago—back _before_ the grandmother had poured them each tall glasses of sherry and told them the "ridiculous" rumors that a body had once been stashed in the ancient house—but they hadn't noticed anything at all ghost-like at the time. No cold spots, flying cutlery, strangulations, or possessions. So, in conclusion, nothing at all that would make this place anything but—

"Normal," Sam said out loud after over an hour of searching. He sighed tiredly. "Nothing's here. Told you this one was a false alarm."

He made another sweep of the basement, moving some boxes with his boot to check for trapdoors. Nothing. He was on his way back to the staircase when a loud crash of glass and wood resounded above his head.

Sam took the stairs three at a time and made it out of the basement in less than five seconds. He glanced around the foyer—empty—and continued, gun raised, up the creaking main staircase to the second level hallway. "Dean?" he called apprehensively.

There was a pause, followed by what sounded like a curse. "In here."

Sam strode to the second door and threw it open. Dean was kneeling on the floor clutching his left shoulder; his gun hung loosely from his other hand. Sam raked the room with his eyes, looking—

"I'm fine," Dean said, "Wasn't the ghost."

Sam's eyes narrowed in confusion and he lowered his shotgun. "It wasn't…?"

"Wasn't the ghost. No," he ground his teeth together, squeezing his fingers tighter over his shoulder.

"Then what…" Sam trailed off. "Are you okay?" he strode over to his brother and dropped down beside him. "Let me see."

"It's fine."

"Dean."

Dean scowled and took his hand off, revealing oozing blood and…gouged teeth marks.

"What the hell?" Sam muttered, reaching out.

"Yeah," Dean said angrily, cupping his fingers over the wound once more before his brother could touch it, "That was my response too."

"How did you manage to…" Sam started, and then switched tracks when he saw the glare Dean shot at him, "_What _did this?"

Dean exhaled slowly before reluctantly answering. "Some homeless guy," Dean admitted. He paused a second and then swatted at Sam, "Don't start."

"A…homeless guy?" Sam repeated, his anxiety dissipating. His lip twitched upwards, "Really?"

"Shut up," Dean growled, pushing himself up to his feet.

Sam stood as well, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "Hiding in a closet, was he? Did he ambush you?"

"I swear Sam, you keep this up and I will make your life a living hell."

"Sorry," Sam said, still grinning, "I'm…" he caught the death glare Dean was shooting him and tried unsuccessfully to turn his laugh into a cough. "I'm sorry."

"Let's just get the hell out of here."

"The ghost—"

"I didn't find anything; unless you saw Casper floating around or something I'm pretty damn sure this gig is a bust."

"No, it's haunted…" Sam said, unable to help himself, "By homeless people."

Dean punched him in the chest. "Shut. It."

"Bobby's going to be so proud to hear that you fought off—"

"Sam!" Dean said, exasperated, "I will _kill_ you."

"Sure you will."

"We never speak of this again," Dean said, turning and leading the way back down the staircase. "Never."

"But—"

"No."

"Oh come on, you have to admit—"

"Sam!"

"Oh alright. I'll _try_ not to remember that you were ambushed by a homeless guy."

"Good," Dean said, relieved. They made it to the Impala without further incident and Dean opened the trunk and threw his gun inside.

Sam pulled some peroxide and strips of gauze out of the med-kit. "Does it need stitches?"

"No," Dean muttered, "Just a stupid surface wound; I got him off before he could…"

"Chow down?" Sam suggested, smiling again.

"Just douse me with peroxide already so we can go," Dean grumbled.

"Yeah, okay," Sam said, pouring some onto a cotton swab. "Oh, and Dean…"

"What?" he asked wearily.

"I'll try my hardest to forget about this, but my memory might _slip_ if I need a favor from you or something—"

"Sam!"

**That's it for the first chapter. Leave a review and tell me what you think. :)**


	2. Headlines

**Hey everyone. Thank you soo much for your reviews! You don't know how much they mean to me, I just haven't been having a good week, and, well, I won't bore you with the details but thank you so much for reading. I wasn't going to post this until tomorrow but can't sleep so...here you go. **

**...The next morning…**

"So, what? You saying this whole shindig was a complete waste of time?"

"Yep," Sam replied into his phone, stepping carefully around another weak patch in the manor's floor. "No screwy EMF readings, no temperature changes…and I rechecked the supposed hauntings of the place last night—"

"You know you're supposed to sleep at night, right?"

"And they're all pretty jumbled," Sam continued, ignoring him, "Like I told you before."

"So now this is my fault?"

"No, it's no one's fault," he said, leaning against a musty doorframe and wincing when the whole thing shifted slightly under his weight, "There's just no ghost. It's an old house that's falling apart and makes weird noises."

"You sure? Cause we could always burn the place down to cover all the bases—"

Sam smirked and ended the call. He slipped the phone back in his pocket and walked out onto the ivy covered porch and down the wooden steps to the Impala. On the short drive back to the room he decided to stop at the local gas station to get some coffee.

A little bell rattled against the glass door as he pushed it open. The store was empty save for two teenage girls behind the cash register who were talking in fast, hushed voices to each other. An old clunky television broadcasted the news from where it was perched on top of the tobacco shelf. The volume was muted.

Sam walked over to the girls and motioned to them to get their attention.

"What?" the shorter one said snippily.

"Uh…I'd like a large coffee; two creams, three packets of sugar."

The girl shot a glance at her fellow coworker and then shook her head before turning back to him, "That it?"

"Yeah."

"Fine. Gimme a minute," she said briskly. She snatched up a tall styrofoam cup from under the counter and splashed some coffee in it in front of him. "Two-fifty."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Cream and sugar?"

"Oh," the girl grumbled. She reached into the bins under the counter and slapped a handful of sugar packets and about five creamers on the counter beside the coffee. "Two-fifty," she said again, turning slightly to glance at the television.

Sam glanced upwards at the screen. A newscaster was deep in conversation with a doctor; they were both standing inside a hospital. He moved his eyes back to the girl. "Is something wrong?"

A strangled laugh escaped from the girl's throat. "Wrong? Is something _wrong_?" she repeated, on the twinge of hysterics, "I shouldn't be here. I'm waiting for my uncle to get here, take me to the hospital. I should be there, not serving people coffee."

Confused, Sam looked to the second teen for help. She met his gaze and smiled apologetically. "Her cousin was attacked this morning," she said quietly.

"Attacked?" Sam repeated.

"Some guy," the first girl burst out, fighting back sobs, "Some guy _bit him_ when he was getting into his car for work. _Bit him_."

"You should go," the second girl said hurriedly, shoving his coffee toward him, "Here. It's on the house."

"Took a huge chunk out of his neck," the first teen continued. "His _neck_! Who does that? What kind of sick bastard—"

"Please…just go," the second girl said, wrapping her arms around her crying friend, "And—and on the way out, just turn the sign on the door so that it says closed, would you?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam said, backing away slowly, "You sure she's alright? Do you need anything?"

"Nah, her uncle will be here soon," the girl said, and turned away from him to console her friend.

Sam turned from her and pushed the door open, making sure to turn the sign on his way out. Once outside he dumped the coffee and ridiculous amount of creamers into the rusted trash can and strode over to the newspaper bin. He put some money in the slot, pulled out a fresh newspaper, and scanned the front page.

"Shit…"

**SNSNSN**

Dean was in the bathroom when he heard his brother open the door and slap his keys down on the wooden table. He finished drying his face and walked into the room. "Well, I talked to the old grandmother who owns the house and I've come to a final verdict. She's insane."

"Really?" Sam said offhandedly, leafing urgently through a stack of newspapers he had spread out all over the table.

Dean looked at him strangely but continued, "Yeah. She wouldn't say a word about the house, just kept trying to hook me up with all her granddaughters…and normally I'd be okay with that, but they're all about 45 years old and have double chins. She showed me pictures. Scary as hell."

Sam grunted something noncommittal.

Dean took a step further into the room. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to see if this is just a coincidence," Sam said, pulling out a new paper and flipping through it.

"Uh…Sam?" Dean said, walking up next to him. "The haunted house? It's a no go. We've already established this—"

"This isn't about the house," Sam interrupted him, coming to the end of the paper and tossing it to the carpet.

"O-kay…what then? You decide to take up recycling or something?"

"How's your shoulder?" Sam asked, still skimming through the headlines.

"Fine," Dean said, shrugging his shoulders up and down as though to prove a point.

"Really?" Sam said skeptically, meeting his gaze for the first time.

"Yeah. It's peachy, no big deal. Hell, I've had worse rug burns. If that's what's got you all worked up—"

Sam wordlessly held up a newspaper in his face. "Check this out," he said simply.

Dean raised an eyebrow and took the paper from him. "Water shortage closes local pool," he read out loud. He looked up. "Sounds tragic."

"No," Sam griped, pointing down at a smaller article in the corner of the page.

Dean read the headline. He paused. "Oh."

"Read it," Sam said flatly.

Dean glanced at his brother's nervous expression and then returned his focus to the article. He read it once, paused, and then reread it more slowly.

"Well?" Sam asked impatiently.

Dean tossed the paper back down on the table. "Some guy got bitten, big deal."

"By a _person_," Sam pointed out.

"Some people are monsters, Sam. We already know this. I mean, remember the Benders?"

"This man was bitten in the next town over. Less than ten miles away. This morning."

"Coincidence," Dean said. "Besides, I thought we weren't ever going to mention last night again."

Sam shook his head, ignoring him, "It's too much of a coincidence for two people to get bitten by a person within a day's time. Something's off."

"Maybe it was the same person, Sam," Dean said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, "Guy bites me, runs off, and bites this guy the next morning. It's just a person."

"A person who walks ten miles in a few hours?"

Dean raised his hands, "I don't know, maybe he drove."

"You said he looked homeless."

"He did, but…give me a break," Dean said, agitated. "It was dark, Sam, okay? I didn't get a good look at him. I don't know what you want me to say."

Sam opened his mouth and then shut it again. He groaned. "Just…just answer one question, okay? One question, and I'll shut up."

"Deal," Dean said.

"Does this look suspicious?" Sam said. He saw that Dean was about to say something and cut him off, "No, I'm not done. I mean, if our roles were reversed, and _I _was the idiot that got himself bitten by a homeless guy—"

"—hey!—"

"Would this look suspicious to you? That's all I'm asking, because I might be overreacting or jumping to conclusions. If our roles were reversed, and you saw this article in the paper, what would you do?"

Dean ground his teeth together. "That's not—"

"Dean."

"Fine!" Dean exclaimed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I'd want to check it out. To make sure."

"Okay then," Sam said. He swept all the newspapers into the trash beside the television and then started shoving his stuff back inside his duffel.

Dean slumped backward on the bed in defeat. "Now?"

"Yes."

"This is stupid."

"I don't care."

"_You're_ stupid."

"That _comeback_ was stupid," Sam shot back, and looked up from his packing to shoot his brother a grin. "Besides, it's not that bad. If we stay in the area you can always hook up with that lady's granddaughters. I'm sure their multiple chins look _gorgeous _in candlelight…"

Dean groaned. "Of course, you remember that _now_. I thought you weren't paying attention."

"I always pay attention. Now pack."

"Whatever," Dean said, pushing himself up off the bed. "We're not staying there long. We go, check out the guy in the hospital, and leave when nothing out of the ordinary happens."

Sam watched his brother go over to the other side of the room to gather his things. "That's what I'm hoping for," he said quietly.


	3. Closets

As Dean stood beside his brother, listening to Sam "bear his soul" to the young nurse in the first floor hallway of the hospital, he had to admit that Sam would have made a hell of a lawyer. The jury would have been in tears after only a couple minutes of his opening statement and the verdict decided before the opposing witnesses could be brought out.

The nurse was no match for him; Dean could practically _feel _her giving in. It was only a matter of when.

"You're sure we can't see him? Even for just a minute?" Sam pleaded, "We won't be any trouble."

"No visitors right now, I'm sorry, he's just not stable yet," the nurse responded apologetically. "I'm not even allowed to send his family in to see him, and they've been waiting since early this morning."

"Can't you…can't you just give me an update? Please?" Sam continued, blinking hard, "Please. He's…he's my best friend. No one's been telling me anything because I'm not his family, but he's always been like a brother to me, and…and…" he let his voice falter and drop off and looked down, the ultimate picture of despair.

Feeling that he should contribute at least a little to the specticle, Dean reached out and squeezed Sam's shoulder comfortingly, making sure to squeeze a little harder than necessary, "I'm sure Jason's gonna be fine," he said, and then looked at the nurse, "Please, can't you just give him some update? He's been _hysterical_ since he heard; I barely managed to get him to stop crying his eyes out so that we could come here," He felt Sam's shoulder jerk against his hand, and it took everything he had not to smile at his brother's annoyance, "Please ma'am, it would really mean a lot to him."

The woman bit her lip, conflicted, and looked around. The hall was mostly deserted save for a few interns chatting by the water fountain. "Okay," she said finally, her voice lowered, "I'll tell you how he's doing."

"Really?" Sam said, his eyes brimming with hope.

Dean ground his teeth together to keep from rolling his eyes at his brother's performance. _Kid's way too good at this…_

"But you have to understand that what I'm going to tell you is by no means good news."

"Yes, of course, just…just tell me how he is."

She looked around again and then back at Sam. "Your friend had half of his throat bitten out," she said softly. "He's lost his voice box completely, so if he wakes up he'll never talk again. I'm sorry."

"I…I know, I heard that," Sam interrupted, voice shaking, "They said it was a man that did it."

"Whoever it was, they don't have him in custody," She said dismissively, and then continued carefully, "We've got him hooked to a breathing machine."

"Is he conscious at all?"

She looked at him sadly, "No. We've got him on a cocktail of pain medication and sedatives, so if he does wake up it won't be for a while."

Sam sank down into a chair that was beside him. "Oh god…"

"But you shouldn't give up," the nurse said quickly, "Really. He's doing a lot better now than at first."

"How much better?" Dean broke in.

"Well…" the nurse said, and stopped. She battled with what to tell them for a moment and then just said it. "When they brought him in this morning, he died on the operating table."

"What?" Sam and Dean said in unison.

"He flat-lined. The doctor called time of death and everything. I was there."

"But he's alive now," Dean said, prodding her for more information.

"That's the weird thing," she said, "Ten minutes after he died, his heart started beating again. The rate was slow and irregular, and we only noticed because he made this horrible gasping sound…so we sedated him and hooked him up to a breathing machine and the doctor stitched him up."

Dean stared at her, trying to digest what she had said. "He was dead."

"Yes," she said, smiling at Sam, "He was. And now he's alive. Your friend's a fighter; I wouldn't give up on him just yet."

"Thank you so much miss," Sam said, standing back up. "I really appreciate it."

"Don't sweat it; I'm just glad—" she cut off as her beeper went off. "Sorry," she said, looking down to check it, "Well, duty calls. It's not your friend," she said, catching Sam's inquisitive gaze, "Just a guy on the third floor that keeps crashing. Heart failure."

Sam nodded.

She turned and briskly made her way to the elevator. Sam watched her until the doors closed and then turned to Dean. "Come on," he said, and made a beeline in the opposite direction down the corridor.

Dean groaned and followed him. "Sam," he called, trying to catch his brother's attention. "Where are you going?"

Sam halted abruptly next to a closet at the end of the hall and opened the door. It was empty; he grabbed Dean's arm and dragged him inside, shutting the door behind them.

"What are we doing in here?" Dean asked, looking around at the shelves of tongue depressors, cotton swabs, and syringes in their plastic packaging.

"Talking," Sam said.

"Talking?" Dean repeated, "Hospital closets aren't for talking, Sam. They're for passionate late night sex when a patient dies or a bomb's about to go off."

"You watch too much television," Sam said, locking the door.

"What if someone finds us in here?"

"People tend to think we're gay to begin with, so this won't hurt your reputation any."

"Probably because you cry too much, _Samantha_," Dean grumbled, "Your performance for that nurse out there was outlandishly moving; you should get an award for the sappiest—"

"Something's going on," Sam interrupted, "We need to find a way into Jason's room so that we can check things out for ourselves."

Dean sighed and leaned against one of the metal shelves. "We shouldn't jump to conclusions."

Sam gave him a _look_. "That guy died for ten minutes and then started breathing again with half his throat missing."

Dean coughed. "I'm sure weird shit like this happens all the time at hospitals—"

"Ten minutes, Dean. He was dead."

"Maybe it was a miracle. You're into miracles."

"Half his throat was ripped out."

"Yeah, but—"

"Half. His. Throat."

"Alright already!" Dean said loudly, raising his hands in surrender.

"So you agree?"

"Of course I agree," Dean snapped, "The guy's freaking _Lazarus_. The fact that he's alive at all is weird as hell."

"Yes. And that's why we need to check it out," Sam said firmly. "Tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean retorted, "Just because I got bitten by some homeless guy? The connections between me and the guy up in that hospital bed are so slim—"

"I don't _care_, Dean," Sam said, "Why are you so set on leaving so soon anyway? I wasn't aware that we had anywhere else to be."

"Bobby found a job for us nearby. An _actual _hunt. With _actual _people who will die if we don't help them."

Sam gritted his teeth, eyes blazing. "We. Are staying. Here."

"Damn it Sam—"

"At least until we check this guy and make _damn sure _all this is just a coincidence."

"Fine," Dean griped, "But if someone dies, it's on you."

"Whatever," Sam said bitterly, "Lots of other people have already died because of me, why not a few more."

Dean blinked, thoughts momentarily derailed.

Sam continued, "We'll hide in here until it gets late. Fewer people should be on duty on the midnight shift."

"And if he dies before that?"

"Then we check him over in the morgue," Sam said stonily.

Knowing from experience that it was pointless to argue with his brother when he was this determined, Dean bit back a retort. "Fine," he said.

"Fine," Sam echoed, folding his arms across his chest.

They stood rigidly in opposite corners of the cramped closet, both glaring at the white tiled floor. A crash cart rolled past their hiding place. Two nurses walked by, giggling about something a patient had said. Minutes crawled by.

The silence inside the closet loomed uncomfortably.

Dean surrendered his staring contest with the floor and glanced at his brother. Sam's shoulders were hunched over, his eyes staring regretfully downward. Dean looked away and gave in. "You know," he said, "You could have at least stranded us in a closet full of food."

Silence.

Dean was almost ready to admit the defeat of his peace offering when a packet of MNM's landed at his feet. Abashed, he looked back at Sam.

Sam shrugged. "I figured we might end up stuck here," he said, "So I picked some stuff up this morning."

Smirking, Dean slid down the wall into a sitting position and opened the candy. "Trying to bribe me?"

"Nah, you already agreed," Sam retorted casually, "This is just your reward for being a good boy," he ducked as an MNM pelted past his head. "Missed," he said, smiling faintly.

"You just wait," Dean shot back through a mouthful of candy.

"I'm terrified," Sam said, sitting down on the floor across from his brother. "Really."

"Just try not to start crying. The nurses might hear your uncontrollable, heart wrenching sobs and find us."

Sam reached up and dumped a box of tongue depressors on his head.

**Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think! **


	4. Dead and Walking

**Here's the next installment. Remember that I'm not a doctor (shocking, I know), so I apologize if I've messed up any medical terminology or anything. On to the zombies!**

After seven _long _hours of waiting (ridden with moments in which Dean amused himself by using syringes as throwing darts, complained about the lack of hot female doctors, and annoyed Sam to no end by asking him repeatedly if it was time to leave yet) Sam announced that _yes, _damn it, it _was _time to leave the torturous closet from hell, and silently swore to himself that if something like this _ever _happened again he would knock Dean out with a sledgehammer before shutting him up in the closet.

The hallways were mostly clear; there were a few nurses ambling about, but they weren't expecting any trouble and were blind to the brothers' stealthy advances up to the third floor.

The door to Jason's room was open when they arrived, and Dean edged it closed as silently as he could behind them. The heart monitor beeped away, proving that the young man on the bed was still alive. Sam peered down at him, frowning at the thick wad of gauze wrapped around his throat. "It's going to be difficult to get a look at that bite," he said softly.

Dean glanced over Sam's shoulder. "Yeah," he agreed, "If we jostle him at all he's likely to relapse. And from the look of it he's not breathing on his own, so we can't remove the breathing tube. Procedure's gonna be a blast."

Sam checked the monitor. "Vitals are…"

"Shitty," Dean finished. "Even _I _know that's not what that beeping line's supposed to look like, and I'm nowhere near as geeky as you."

Sam ignored his brother's failure at medical terminology and moved to check the chart at the end of the bed.

"Don't bother," Dean said, "I've seen enough dying people to recognize the signs when I see them. He doesn't have long."

"No," Sam said, brow furrowing deeper.

Dean's gaze softened, "Sammy…he's a goner. He was doomed the moment that guy ripped his throat out. You weren't there, you couldn't have—"

"No," Sam repeated, shaking his head at Dean, "That's not what I meant," he paused, looking down at Jason, "He's not dying."

"He's not?" Dean said, raising an eyebrow.

"No, he's already dead," Sam finished, "The machines are breathing for him and keeping his heart pumping, and according to the chart there's no brain activity at all. The guy's a vegetable."

"Can't be. They would've told the family already."

Sam shrugged. "The high-ups are probably scared that if he dies now the family will sue them for accidently declaring him dead and wasting time they could have used to save him."

"Well, that's a battle we're not going to wait around to see," Dean said dismissively, "Let's take a look at his bite and split."

"Sounds good," Sam said, turning back to the bed. He froze.

Dean saw his brother's shoulders tense and stepped up beside him. "What—"

"Eyes," Sam hissed, "Look."

Jason's lids were slowly cracking open, his lashes twitching gently.

"Holy shit…" Dean muttered.

"That…should not be happening," Sam said. He swept up the chart and feverously looked it over again.

"Thought you said he was dead."

"He is," Sam said.

"No Sam," Dean whispered, glancing at the door, "I'm pretty sure he's not."

"Dean, I swear to you this guy is dead."

"Then what do you call that?" Dean asked, pointing to the corner of the monitor, "That's brain activity, right?"

Sam looked. The square that had previously been empty was now exploding with activity. "That's not supposed to look like that," he said, stepping to the other side of the bed to get a closer look.

"Okay, what should it look like?"

Too baffled by the present situation to try explaining medical practice to Dean, Sam decided on a different approach. He reached over, took the sensor clip off Jason's finger, and clasped it to his own. The beeping flat lined for a moment in the transition and then picked up on Sam's heartbeat.

Dean stepped over to Sam, watching the monitor. "Oh," he said, "That's a big difference."

"Yeah."

In unison, they looked over at Jason and found him staring straight back at them with wide eyes. His irises were colorless and glazed over, and as they stared his hands shakily tried to grab onto the breathing tube.

"Sir…don't do that," Sam said, grabbing one of Jason's arms and returning it to his side. A long muted snarl came from the man's lips, and he swatted at Sam.

Dean grabbed Sam's arm and yanked him back. "Don't."

Sam shrugged out of Dean's hold but stayed put beside his older brother, watching as the man gave up on the breathing tube and—

Sat up.

"O-kay," Dean said after a moment, "You're the walking encyclopedia, Sam. What's happening?"

Jason snarled at them through the breathing tube and jerkily climbed off the bed. The movement detached most of the wires and machines from his body, and he tugged his arm hard as he took a wobbly step, ripping the remaining IV's out of his skin.

"He's dead," Sam said, pulling his pistol out of his waistband and holding it uncertainly.

"He's _walking_," Dean responded, copying Sam's actions as Jason took another step closer.

"Yeah, well, he's walking _and _he's dead," Sam said, "That's all I got."

Dean laughed. "Come on, the only thing I've ever heard of that walks around in its body after its dead is a zombie."

"So it's a zombie, then," Sam said, keeping his gun trained on Jason.

"That can't be right," Dean began skeptically, but stopped when he heard a cracking, sucking noise. He glanced at Jason just in time to watch him tear the breathing tube out of his already destroyed throat and toss the bloody device onto the floor a few feet in front of them. He took in a deep, gasping, strained breath. His lips moved soundlessly, echoing the madness shining in his dead eyes.

"Damn," Sam muttered.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean said, clutching his gun tighter, "He's a zombie alright."

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	5. Infected

The brothers watched as Jason swayed in front of them. His body hunched over; neck leaned at an odd angle. Spittle and blood projected from his twisted lips as he growled.

Sam reached out and pushed Dean's gun down.

"What are you doing?" Dean snapped, smacking his hand away.

"You can't shoot now," Sam said, voice lowered, "We're in a hospital. People will hear you."

"Well what _else_ do you suggest we do, serve him tea and biscuits? He's a _zombie_."

"He doesn't seem to be too aggressive just yet."

"As in he's not eating me? Oh good. Let's just wait around till he gets to it."

"The sedative they gave him is probably still in his blood stream," Sam said, "Just don't make any sudden moves, we don't know how he'll react to us yet."

"How are we supposed to kill him without making any sudden moves, Sam?"

"Uh…what do they use in your movies?"

"Chainsaws are popular."

"I forgot mine at the hotel," Sam hissed, eyes locked on the dazed zombie.

"Guess he's gonna eat our brains, then."

"No, you're safe," Sam quipped, taking a cautious step backward, "You don't have one of those."

"Who do you think I look like, Paris Hilton?" Dean scoffed, stepping back beside his brother.

"The resemblance is striking," Sam said with a smirk. "So…ideas."

"Knock him out before the sedative stops working."

"Someone will still hear that."

"Well those are out options, Sammy. We shoot him or knock him out, cause—"

Jason lunged, cutting him off mid-sentence, and rammed into Dean. Caught off-guard, Dean fell to his knees, hands gripping Jason's shoulders tightly as the man strained to tear into him with his fingernails.

With a grunt of surprise, Sam grabbed Jason's shoulders and heaved backward, trying to get him off his brother. His hands slipped on the blood gathering at the base of the man's neck and half the bandage tore off in his grip.

"Sam!" Dean hissed as Jason's gaping mouth opened and shut with sharp clicking sounds inches from his face, "A little help here."

Sam gave up on manhandling Jason away from Dean and ripped the bulky phone on the bedside table out of the wall. He strode back over and slammed the phone into Jason's skull. It made a loud dinging sound when it connected.

Jason continued his quest to gnaw Dean's face off as though nothing had happened. Sam swore and swung again. And again. And again.

Blood from Jason's head splattered up onto Sam's face with each swing. For his part, Jason continued as though nothing was happing.

Dean pressed his back against the wall, aware and disgusted that one of his fingers was crammed through the hole in Jason's throat as he tried to use his legs to kick him off. The guy was too strong. "Sam! Stop playing around!"

"I'm trying!" Sam said angrily. He threw the phone back onto the bed, but in his haste it slammed into a tray and scattered its contents all over the floor. Eyes catching on a scalpel, Sam snatched it up and wrapped his arm around Jason's neck under his chin to get him away from Dean. Jason's teeth clamped down on his watch, and Sam swore before he drove the scalpel deep into the man's head.

Jason twitched and turned his rage on Sam, but Sam was already ripping the scalpel out and plunging it back in again, and again, and again—

Jason slumped against him, lifeless. Sam left the scalpel lodged in his brain and tugged him off his brother, who was crouched against the wall. "Son of a bitch," Dean panted, "Guy was strong as the Hulk."

"You okay?" Sam asked, checking him over.

Dean nodded. "You?"

"Yeah," Sam said, "He tried to gnaw my arm off but only managed to get my watch."

They stared at the body. "Well shit," Dean said, "He really was a zombie."

"Can't believe no one heard all that noise," Sam muttered, stepping closer to Jason's body.

"Probably all too busy having steamy sex in the closets—what are you doing?"

Sam pushed the torn gauze back from Jason's throat. The stitches had all been broken in the fight, revealing black, sticky globs of blood. The edges of the wound were crusted with white. "It's an infection. Probably from when he got bitten…" Sam said.

Dean leaned down beside Sam to get a look. "Huh," he said, "Didn't the guy just get bit yesterday? It spread fast." He felt his brother tense beside him and inwardly cursed himself for saying it.

Sam slowly swiveled his head to look at Dean.

"Sam," Dean said slowly, reading his brother's expression, "Don't worry, okay? This is all just a big coincidence."

"Let me see your bite," Sam said levelly.

"It doesn't look like _that_," he said, gesturing toward Jason, "I would know, alright? Anyway, you don't see me walking around trying to eat anyone."

"When was the last time you cleaned it?" Sam asked, in that same too-calm tone of voice that Dean knew all too well as the 'freaked out little brother' voice.

"Last night, right after we got back to the room."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "You didn't clean it today?"

"It doesn't hurt," Dean said defensively. He poked the wound hard with his finger. "See? And it's not seeping through the bandages or anything, so I just left it alone."

"Let me see it," Sam said again.

Dean dropped his arm to his side, "Later. We need to go before someone finds us in here standing over a dead guy and covered in his blood."

"No," Sam said stubbornly.

"But Sam—"

Sam growled in frustration and grabbed Dean's left arm, moving his sleeve up to reveal the bandage. "Stay still," he said, and started carefully removing it.

Knowing better than to argue, Dean let his brother unwind the bandage from his arm. He kept his eyes focused on Sam's face, waiting for his reaction.

Sam didn't react. His eyes remained locked on Dean's arm, staring levelly at the bite. Somehow, that worried Dean more than anything his brother might have said.

"What is it?" he said quietly. "Sammy?"

Sam finally met his gaze, expression still unreadable. "It's…" he said, and stopped. "It's bad."

Dean breathed out slowly and then looked at his arm. The bite was transformed from last night, filled with black gooey blood and crusted with white. Just like Jason's. Still in disbelief, he reached up and pushed on it with a finger. No pain. A few clumps of dried blood dislodged and drifted to the floor.

Dean looked back at his brother, who had gone white and was still staring at the bite. He put his hand over it, trying to shield it from him. "Sam," he said, "It's okay."

Sam shook his head. "We need to find out what's going on," he said, "_Now_."

**Reviews are loved. :) **


	6. Stranger Than Fiction

**Sorry this chapter took so long to post, my little sister had her high school graduation party and I've been working like crazy getting ready for it. She wanted a fiesta with piñatas and stuff, so it was a beast to put together. Worth it for her, though. :) **

**Thanks for all the reviews, you guys are awesome!**

Sam was freaked.

That in itself was nothing new. Sam got freaked out all the time; like when Dean's phone died on a hunt or when they got separated on a hunt or when the body they were supposed to burn went missing on a hunt, or…other things that ended with 'on a hunt.'

This was different. They hadn't been on a hunt this time; they had no background information, no suspects, no speculations, and no body to burn. This time the hunt had found them, and Sam knew next to nothing about what they were hunting.

"Tell me about zombies, Dean," Sam said, pacing around the hotel room like a caged lion. "What do you know? Have you seen one before, did Dad run into any of them?"

Dean sat on the corner of his bed, trying not to concentrate on the whole lot of _nothing _he could feel in his infected shoulder. He took a sip of water from a plastic cup and cringed at the lukewarm temperature. "I only know what I've seen in movies and video games," he answered, sitting the cup down on the dresser, "I've never actually seen one before. Thought they were one of the few monsters that weren't real."

Sam scowled. "Like we'd ever get that lucky," he said, and plopped down in front of his laptop. "Everything's real. Everything's out there and somehow _we _always run into everything, and everything is trying to kill us."

"Not everything," Dean protested weakly.

"Fairy tales, Dean," Sam said fiercely, "_Fairy tales _have tried to kill us."

"Welllll…yeah, but—"

"And now zombies? _Zombies_? I mean…what the hell kind of crap luck do we have that we run into zombies?" he typed something into a search engine, fingers pounding vengeance on the keyboard.

"Um," Dean said quickly, looking at his watch and standing. "You see what you can find online; I'm gonna go check out today's paper and see if I can scrounge up some old ones, see if anyone in town has gone missing."

Sam's eyes widened as though Dean had said 'I'm going to set the Impala on fire, drive it off a building, and land it in a two foot kiddie pool full of acid while blindfolded and juggling double-edged swords.' "No!" he nearly shouted, and then coughed. "No."

Dean groaned. "Sam, I'm fine."

"You're infected—"

"And I feel fine now, okay? Look if I start to feel even slightly sick I'll call you," he said. He smiled widely at Sam and bolted out the door, giving him one last exaggerated wave.

Sam stared after him. "Stupid jerk," he muttered, and got to work.

**SNSNSN**

When Dean walked in a few hours later, he was could tell by the look on Sam's face that he hadn't had any luck. Unfortunately, what he had found wasn't much better. "Twelve people," he said, dropping a stack of newspapers beside Sam on the desk.

Sam frowned. "Dead?"

"Missing," he said, "In the last two months. And…the obituary rates have skyrocketed."

"Coincidence?" Sam said distractedly, reading through one of the articles.

"Probably not," he answered, "Seeing as several of the deaths are listed as animal attacks or an unknown disease."

"Damn," Sam muttered, "There could be any number of these things loose in the woods."

Dean nodded and sat down in the chair opposite his brother. "So…find anything?" he said carefully.

Sam laughed. "Not really. Everything I read says they're just fictional. It's not like ghosts, there're no documentations of any zombies running around anywhere, just a lot of crap movies."

Dean winced. "Hey! Watch your mouth there Sammy."

"And I researched the town," Sam continued, "The last crime committed here was a minor shoplifting offence, and that was five years ago. The people here are practically saints. _Jesus _could live here."

"Who?"

Sam glared at him.

"Ohhhh, that Jesus," Dean said, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm pretty sure he's dead now, Sam. Sorry. He's not looking to buy property."

"Shut up," Sam snapped, "Stop trying to calm me down. I don't need calmed down."

_Damn. _"I wasn't—"

"Do you feel alright?" Sam demanded, switching tracks even as he typed something else.

"_Yes_," he said, exasperated. "I'm fine."

"And the bite, any change?"

"No, it's fine. Doesn't hurt."

"And—"

"Dude, I've only been gone an few hours, not days. Chill."

"Says here that it can take any amount of time for an infected person to become a zombie," Sam said tensely, "And Jason turned in less than a day."

"His bite was worse than mine, Sam. His throat was ripped out. Probably quickened the transformation."

"I know," Sam said, "But nothing on here is factual in any way and I don't have any real information to go on—"

On impulse, Dean reached over and snapped Sam's laptop shut. His brother let out a squeak. Dean would have found it hilarious if he hadn't looked so frantic. "Breathe," he commanded.

"Why did you—"

"Breathe before you give yourself a heart attack," Dean continued, pulling the laptop away when Sam reached to open it again, "And stop looking if you can't find anything."

"Maybe I missed something important."

"Sam, if you want to learn about zombies, watch _Dawn of the Dead_. Or _Zombieland_. Or—"

Sam shook his head. "Those are just fiction."

"Like zombies?" Dean shot back.

Sam growled.

"Fine," Dean said, cutting Sam off before he could yell again, "We won't watch any movies. What do we do?"

"I…" Sam sighed heavily and slumped in his chair. "I don't know. I don't know anything about zombies except that they're dead and walk around."

"That's pretty much the idea," Dean said, smiling.

"Yeah, but…with that many potential zombies out there it will be next to impossible to catch them all before they bite someone else or move to the next town and start eating people there."

"Already have, remember?" Dean said. "We don't know how far they've gotten."

Sam slumped further. "And I have no idea how to cure you," he said softly, almost too softly for Dean to hear.

"Well, we have to actually find some zombies first," Dean said, quickly changing the subject, "Right?" _Come on Sammy, take the bait…_

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Changing the subject on me?"

_Nothing gets by you today, huh Sammy? _"Did it work?"

"No."

"Damn."

"Dean…" Sam said quietly, "What if…what if we can't find a cure?"

Dean took a deep breath. "I saw a rainbow colored unicorn flying out by the post office. Want to go check it out?"

Sam blinked.

"Ha!" Dean exclaimed, pointing with triumph at his brother's face. "Distracted! In your _face_!"

Sam sat in silence for a moment, and then cracked a smile. "You're crazy."

"And you're a freak. Now that we've got that down, let's figure out how to find the zombies, shall we?"

Still half-smiling, Sam shrugged. "I have no idea where to even start looking," he said, "I mean, the forest is the most logical spot, but it'll take us forever to find them all in there. I hate to say it, but maybe we should alert some kind of health agency about the situation. They'd be better equipped to deal with this problem than we are…might be able to help with a cure, too."

Dean smirked. "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"I'm serious. This isn't just a ghost, or…or ten ghosts. I can deal with ghosts. Or werewolves. Or vampires. Or—"

"Clowns?"

"Shut up," Sam snapped, "I just think we could use a little extra help on this one."

"No," Dean said, "Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"The Crazies."

Sam stared at him like he had grown a second head. "What are you talking about?"

"Virus gets in the water supply, people drink it and get infected, and the government comes in and blows the town off the map," he said.

"But—"

"Quarantine," Dean continued, "Some people in an apartment building get infected with a virus, and the government locks everyone in the building and won't let anyone out. Guess how that one ends?"

"Those are just movies, Dean."

"Yeah, well, you said yourself that there's nothing on zombies beside speculation and fiction."

"Fine," Sam said, standing up, "No outside help. How are we going to cure you?"

_And we're back to that, are we? Alright. _Dean paused, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't set his brother off. "Sam, we don't even know that I'm going to end up like Jason."

"You were bitten," Sam said, throwing his arms out, "Your bite looks the same as his."

"I don't feel any different," Dean said louder, trying to reassure his brother, "I feel fine. No desire to coat you with barbeque sauce and eat you or anything," he paused. "Not that you would taste good. You'd probably be all stringy."

Sam stared at him. "Barbeque sauce?" he said flatly.

Dean shrugged.

Sam rolled his eyes and sat back down. He reached out, pulled his laptop back over, and opened it.

Dean ran his hand over the newspaper clippings and then put his head down on the cool table, listening to the clicking of Sam's keyboard.

"I hate barbeque sauce," Sam said finally after a few minutes, "Too sweet."

Dean chuckled into his arms, his eyes still closed, "That's it. We're not related."

"There are plenty of things that I like that you think are disgusting."

"That's cause you're a health freak," Dean muttered. "You eat tofu."

Sam smiled.

"So, what did you really find out?" Dean asked, head still down, "Because you always find some kind of facts."

Sam shook his head, "Rabies," he said.

"That a movie?"

"No, it's what Mr. Mittens died from when I was eight."

"He ran away," Dean said quickly.

"Dad told me, Dean," Sam said, grinning, "Rabies."

"Damn," Dean muttered.

"Anyway," he said, "There are similarities between zombie infections and rabies. They're both transmitted through contaminated saliva and lead to dementia and the collapse of higher brain function. The person basically becomes an animal, living on instinct…" he paused. "So we just have to find the missing people and destroy their brains."

"Fun," Dean said, his head still down. "That'll be great fun."

It was his tone that set off alarm bells in Sam's head. Or, more specifically, the _lack _tone. He didn't sound like Dean. "Are you okay?" he said, putting down his laptop screen again.

"M'fine," Dean said, "Just tired."

Sam's inner alarm bells screeched.

"Okay," Sam said, trying not to freak. _He's fine, nothing's wrong. He was up all night for crying out loud, it's not like he shouldn't be tired. _"Maybe you should take a nap."

"Nah, I'm good," Dean said, burrowing his head deeper into his arms, "You jus'keep looking for stuff."

"What stuff?" Sam asked, heart rate rising.

"Stuff you were looking for."

"And what was that?" Sam demanded levelly, "What was I looking for?"

There was a pause.

"Dean?"

Dean raised his head up off the table, a strange look on his face. "I…I have no idea."

**Reviews are like brains. :)**


	7. Memory Loss

Sam stared at his brother, heart rate exploding through the roof. "_What_?"

"I don't know," Dean repeated, baffled. "I…Sammy, I don't remember," he blinked hard, as though willing himself to wake up from a dream.

Sam's fingernails dug into his knee under the table. "Anything?" he said, unable to force his mind to form a sentence.

Dean sat up straighter, brow furrowed, "No, I…no."

_Stay calm stay calm stay calm. _"What's the last thing you _do_ remember?"

Dean concentrated. "Uh…walking in. With the newspapers," he paused and looked at them, lying on the table. "Did I show them to you?"

"Yes," Sam said, watching Dean's face fall. "Uh…"

"And then what?" he asked, apprehensive, "What did I do after that?"

"Nothing. I told you the little that I'd found, and you…you put your head down, said you were tired," Sam said, and shook his head, "But you were responding to everything I said. You looked fine."

"Then why I am missing the last…how long was it? Since I walked in?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Shit," Dean muttered, standing up and pacing over to the door and back. "Guess the bite is doing something after all."

The fact that Dean admitted that he was in trouble made the current situation all too real for Sam. "We'll figure it out," he said, unable to keep the desperation from creeping into his voice. "Right?"

Dean looked at Sam's scared expression and cringed. _Sorry Sammy. People that get bitten by zombies die or turn into zombies, usually both. And weird memory lapses? I'm screwed. _"Yeah," he said out loud, "We always do."

"Yeah," Sam said, wanting to believe him. He bit his lip and leaned forward in his chair so that both elbows were propped on the table. "Dean…I'm in the dark here, man. I don't know what to do."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to remember something. "Don't look at me, all I know is that to kill zombies you destroy the brain."

"No, I know that. We…we already discussed that part," Sam said.

"We did?" Dean said in dismay.

"Yeah. About _The Crazies_ and _Quarantine_ and us just finishing this ourselves by finding the missing civilians and taking out their brains."

"I cited movies?"

"You did," Sam said helplessly, "You were…you were _you_, Dean. You were even trying to distract me. Nothing was odd until you put your head down and said you were tired."

"That doesn't make sense, Sam. There had to be some kind of sign."

Sam shook his head. "We'll find the cure, Dean. And…save all the townspeople. And kill all the zombies. It's what we do."

"Piece of cake," Dean said, and collapsed.

Sam's startled brain took a few seconds to register what had happened, and then he leapt up and was at his brother's side in a moment, grabbing his arm and gently turning him so that his head lolled against his shoulder. "Dean? Dean!" His brother didn't move. He reached for his wrist and held his breath—

A heartbeat. It was there—_faint_—but there. Sam let out his breath in a whoosh. "Thank god…" He moved one hand from around his brother and gently undid the bandage on his shoulder. His face fell.

The bite had spread. It was wider now, and looked deeper. The black goop clung to the gauze in long strings and flecks of dead skin dropped to the carpet.

**SNSNSN**

Dean was unconscious for six hours. Six endless, tense hours. During that time nothing changed except the bite, which looked bigger. It might have just been Sam's imagination, though. He _wanted _it to just be his imagination.

He was about ready to give in and take his brother to the hospital when he looked up from spacing at his laptop and saw that Dean's eyes were open. He jumped up, banged his leg against the table, cursed, and rushed to the bed. "Dean?"

Dean blearily met his gaze. "What'd that table do to you?"

Sam resisted the urge to smother him with a hug and sat down on the bed instead. "You alright? Does anything hurt?"

Dean's eyes cleared a bit, enough for Sam to see the confusion in them. "What…what happened?"

"You passed out," Sam said, and then added, "Do you remember falling?"

Dean's forehead furrowed. "I remember…I think. You screamed."

Relieved that he remembered _something_, Sam grinned. "I don't scream."

"Like a girl. Called my name and everything."

Sam shook his head. _Still Dean. _"Do you need water? Pain pills?"

"Water," Dean said, "No pills."

Sam looked at him skeptically.

"Nothing hurts," he explained with a shrug, and accepted the cup of water that Sam handed out to him. "You okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "No, Dean. I was killed. Sitting in the room. With the door locked. I'm a ghost now."

"Wouldn't put it past you, little brother," Dean said, and looked at him questioningly, "Shouldn't you be wearing a sheet? I wouldn't trust the ones in this room, though. Who knows what people have done on them—"

Sam sighed. "Nope, don't need a sheet. Only you can see me."

"So this is hell," he said, nodding. "That explains the god-awful flowery wallpaper."

"No, this is the reality where the great Dean Winchester got himself bitten by a homeless guy."

"You mean a _zombie_," Dean said, emphasizing the word, "It's got a better ring to it."

"You mean it doesn't sound as pathetic?" Sam asked, and then laughed when Dean glared at him, "Fine, a homeless zombie, then."

"I'll accept that," Dean said, leaning back in the bed. "So…how am I doing, doc?"

Sam's smile faded as he was drawn back to reality. "Your shoulder…the bite's bigger. And the skin in and around it is dying." Dean moved to look at it but Sam put a hand on his arm. "Don't, I just wrapped it again. You can look in a couple hours."

"It doesn't hurt."

"Probably because it's dead skin."

"Great. Sounds awesome," Dean groaned, "And why did I do a swan dive?"

"I don't know. You were fine."

"That's what you said last time," Dean said, frowning.

"You were fine then too."

"Is this the Winchester definition of fine?"

"No, it's the 'you're you being an idiot so you're okay' definition of fine."

"I'm unfamiliar with that."

"That's because you're an idiot."

"So I'm fine, then?"

"Exactly."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back on the bed. "Time?"

"Why?"

"Just curious."

Sam glanced at the clock on the nightstand before remembering that it was stuck on 2:16. He looked at his watch instead. "Almost six."

"We need to get going, then," Dean said, and swung his legs off the bed.

Sam snapped into full protective mode. He flung up a hand to stop him. "No," he said, "You aren't going anywhere. No," he stepped in front of his brother, trying to make himself into a wall. It wasn't hard.

Dean frowned up at him. "We need to kill the zombies, Sam. Before they make other zombies or reach the next town."

Sam didn't move. He crossed his arms in front of him, thoughts racing with every possible bad scenario that could happen if Dean left the room now. "What if we find a zombie and you faint again?"

"I don't faint," Dean said defensively.

"You just did."

"Sam—"

"Dude, you were _out_. I couldn't wake you. Anything could happen out there, how am I supposed to stop them from eating you if we get attacked and you do that again?" he said forcefully, "We have no idea what's wrong with you."

"Zombie bite."

"Don't be a smart ass," Sam spat, "You know what I mean. We don't know how your body is reacting to the bite or what's going to happen next. We don't have any ideas on how to cure you. We'd be going in to a hunt _blind_."

"Look, I'm not too excited about it either, okay? We don't have a choice. If we don't hunt tonight or at least scope out the area someone else is going to get bitten."

"We don't know that—"

"Do you want to chance it? I don't."

Sam growled deep in his throat. He looked down at Dean, checking him over for signs of injury, fatigue, anything. _He looks fine, he's talking fine, and he's still being a complete stubborn jerk so he's coherent, and I won't be able to keep him here._ He paused. "I don't like this."

"Sam—"

"I don't like this but we're going to have to do it anyway," Sam continued, talking over him, "So I'm calling the shots here. You stay with me at all times."

"I'll be super clingy," Dean said, seriously, "Just like that one girlfriend you had that called you twice a night."

Sam glared.

"Remember when Dad said he was gonna take the shotgun and go—"

"_Next_," Sam continued, "And I know this might be difficult, but don't do anything stupid."

"Define stupid?"

"_You_," Sam said with emphasis.

"Harsh, Sam."

"And if you start feeling weird, or even _tired _you damn well let me know or I will chain you down in this room and hunt down all the zombies by myself."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Now _that _sounds stupid."

"Yeah, well, don't force me," Sam said seriously. _Because I will. And you can hate me all you want but I swear to god I'll do it._

Dean caught the look in Sam's eyes and softened instantly. "Okay Sammy," he said quietly.

Sam breathed out and dropped his offensive stance, allowing his shoulders to droop as they normally did as he turned away. "So…we need to find the zombies."

Dean nodded.

"I don't even know where to begin looking," Sam said bitterly. "This is going to take forever, and we don't have _time_."

Dean's face lit up. "I didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Dean jumped off the bed, deaf to Sam's shout to be careful, and rifled through the newspapers. He pulled out a particularly dog eared page and handed it to Sam. "See here? It says that a lot of the missing people were last seen hunting in this area of the woods. By the creek. There's even a _picture_."

Sam smiled grimly. "Well look at that," he muttered, "At least something's going our way."

Dean clapped him on the back. "Let's go find some zombies."

**And the hunt begins. Review please! **


	8. First Encounter

**Hey everyone! Thanks for all the input, suggestions, and encouragement. I appreciate all of it! Also, a few of you have noted that Dean should potentially be stalking around eating everyone by now due to his bite and how long he's had it. I agree that this could be true but after a lot of consideration of both older and newer movies I planned on making Dean's zombie progression a slow process, mainly because it would be boring if Dean was off in lala land for most of the fic while Sam ran around talking to himself and pouring his angst to the world. Also, I want them to be able to find a cure so this won't have to end up a death fic. Because I am going to cure Dean, right? Eh, you'll just have to wait and see. :P **

Sam stood with his brother beside the creek. They were several miles from the Impala, and the pitch black woods were soundless except for the rustle of leaves overhead and water rushing over the rocks below. Sam shook his head. "This is stupid," he said, "I feel completely unprepared for this."

"That's cause we are completely unprepared," Dean said kneeling to shine his flashlight over the mud to look for prints.

"You're a bright ray of sunshine, you know that?"

"But I'm _your_ bright ray of sunshine, princess," Dean said, smirking. "There are a few tracks of footprints here."

"Hunters or zombies?"

"Not a clue," Dean said, standing back up and into Sam's flashlight beam. "Can't tell."

Sam hesitated. Dean was shivering, no, shaking like a leaf. To Sam, who was perfectly comfortable in the 75 degree night air, this wasn't a good omen. "Dean…"

Sighing, Dean turned, anticipating the argument. "Sam?"

"Nothing," he said unconvincingly, not wanting to begin another pointless 'I'm fine' battle of wills. He pushed on with why they had actually come. The sooner they finished, the sooner he could figure out how to fix his brother. _Because it damn well had to be possible._ "So…what? We just pick a set of footprints and track them, hoping to find a zombie? That's a terrible idea."

"Not as terrible as my _actual _idea," Dean said, smiling grimly.

"I thought this was your actual idea."

"No. It would take forever to track down all these things individually."

Sam looked at him blankly. "I'm not following."

Dean slung his pack off his good shoulder and rifled through it a bit before pulling out a stereo.

"No," Sam said flatly. "Absolutely not."

Dean winced. "We don't have—"

"Dude, have you completely lost your mind? We have no idea how many of those things are out here, we don't want to call them to us!"

"Sam," Dean said calmly, putting the stereo down, "We don't—"

"Did you see this in a movie? I swear I'm banning you from watching tv from now on."

"We—"

"And you're injured! We should just take them all down one by one, it's safer—"

"Damn it Sam, _we don't have time_!" Dean shouted out in one breath.

Sam's mouth snapped shut.

Dean groaned and leaned against the trunk of an oak tree. "Sam," he said carefully, "I'm infected, okay? We both know what that means for me."

"Shut-up," Sam snapped, shaking his head, "Don't….just shut-up."

Dean exhailed slowly. "We don't…_I _don't have time to track them one by one. Face it, Sam, I'm a time bomb."

"You can't—" Sam's expression changed. He shoved his brother to the ground.

Caught off guard, Dean hit the dirt hard, one hand splashing into the shallow bed of the creek. His flashlight tumbled into the water and caught on a jagged rock. He looked up in time to see Sam go down under a man's flailing limbs. "Sam!" he shouted, and moved to get up.

A growl resounded close to his ear. He turned and found himself eye to eye with a young woman. Her hair was matted around her face, her teeth bared. Without thinking, Dean smashed his elbow across her temple and kicked out, trying to knock her away so he could climb to his feet. Undeterred, she reached for him, her mouth opening and shutting with wordless babble.

Dean grabbed a rock and slammed it into her face. It connected with her mouth with a crunch, and he pulled it back for a second strike, noting in dim light how her teeth were hanging from her gums like charms on a bracelet. She shrieked, fingernails raking his body. He brought the rock down on her again, knocking her to the side for a moment and giving himself enough time to pull out his pistol. She lunged for him again. He put the barrel of the gun to her forehead and pulled the trigger.

The BANG resounded through the trees. She fell limply into his lap, her colorless eyes unfocused. He looked up for his brother. Sam stood a few meters away, blood smeared on his coat and dripping from a knife in his hand. A body lay at his feet, motionless.

"You okay?" Dean said.

Sam nodded and sheathed the knife as he spurted to his brother and gave him a hand up. "It's his blood, not mine. We should move, that gunshot probably attracted more of them."

Dean wobbled on his feet for a moment before finding equilibrium. "Yeah," he said, stooping to fish his flashlight out of the stream, "Guns."

Sam grunted and unzipped the gun-bag. He pulled out a shotgun and tossed it to Dean, pulling out a second for himself along with some additional shells. "See any?"

"No," Dean said shortly, scanning between the trees.

Sam heard a twig snap and jerked his gun up. Nothing. "They could be anywhere," he said apprehensively, his back against Dean's.

"Yeah, but at least they aren't invisible like ghosts," he said, "Should be simple to spot and kill."

"Unless we run out of ammo."

"You're a real buzz kill, bro."

Eyes glinted through the leaves. Sam shone his flashlight in them. Colorless, wild. He fired. The man dropped like a stone, a bullet through the brain.

"How many people died recently, again?" Sam asked, trying to figure out how many zombies might be coming.

Silence.

"Dean?" Sam said. He heard a snarl behind him and turned in time to see an old woman lunging toward his brother from the side, her nightgown flapping around her legs. He fired and caught her in the shoulder, whipping her around. She screamed, spittle flying. He fired again and she dropped. "Dean!" Sam said quickly, rounding on his brother. Dean's eyes were unfocused, his fingers clenched tightly around his gun. Sam grabbed his arm, hoping for a reaction. His skin was clammy and hot to the touch, quivering.

He didn't respond.

Leaves crackled. Sam whirled, fired over Dean's shoulder. The man collapsed, his shattered glasses landing a few feet from his body. "Dean," Sam said frantically, shaking his brother with one hand. "You in there?"

A snarl. Sam saw a woman lunge for him out of the corner of his eye. He turned and fired, catching her in the chest. She fell backward, breaths streaming from her lips in difficult gasps. One arm lifted, reaching for Dean's leg.

Just as Sam aimed and pulled the trigger a hand grabbed his shirt and pulled. His shot went wild and hit her arm instead, slicing through tissue and muscle and shattering the bone.

Sam heard her howl and he went down, pulled by something his couldn't see. His shotgun fell from his hands and landed a few meters away, out of reach. "Dean!" he yelled, pushing up against the body that was trying to get a chunk out of his neck. His brother still stood motionless, his gun nestled against his shoulder as though ready to fire.

Sam switched his focus off Dean and pushed up with one hand, trying to get out his knife and keep the man from biting him at the same time. He felt something grab his leg and he kicked out, knocking the woman he had already shot twice away momentarily. Her arm dangled by a thread from the elbow down.

Slobber dribbled onto his face from the man above him. Sam grunted, trying to keep him from closing the distance between them. The pointer finger of his right hand touched the hilt of his knife. Fingers latched onto his leg again as the woman climbed her way up to him. He kicked hard, knocking her off again and managing to offset the man above him enough to grab the knife.

Gripping the hilt, Sam brought the blade down into the man's skull. He fell against his neck, dead. Sam pushed out, knocking his body into the other woman. She stumbled back, reaching for him with the stump of an arm, growling, her blond hair illuminated in the moonlight. He stood and walked over to his shotgun. Aimed.

Her colorless eyes locked on his, and Sam faltered. She breathed out again, blood bubbling from between her gaping lips as she tried to get to him. To kill him. "I'm so sorry," he said, and fired. She fell back into the running water of the creek and didn't move.

Sam took a breath and looked around, scanning the area. Nothing. He stood there for a moment more, waiting, and then hurried over to his brother. His brother who _still_ hadn't moved. "Dean," he said urgently, slapping him lightly on the cheek. "Come on, man, give me something here."

When his brother didn't respond he wrapped his hands around Dean's shotgun and tugged. He gritted his teeth when Dean's hold on the weapon didn't lessen and, pulling harder, he managed to wrench the shotgun away from his brother. Dean didn't lower his hands so Sam pushed them down to his sides.

A twig snapped. Sam whirled, his gun up.

A squirrel crouched a few feet away under a pine tree, nibbling on an acorn. Sam resisted the urge to shoot the thing out of frustration and turned back to his brother. "Dean, _please_," he said, shaking his shoulders hard. He looked into his eyes, dismayed to see his brother's green eyes distant and glazed over.

Dean wasn't home.

**Reviews are awesome. :)**


	9. The Joys of Internet Research

**Okay, so I had this chapter posted before but I was reading through my story so far and realized that I had LEFT OUT the entire chapter that was supposed to follow this one! :O Sooo sorry, not sure how it happened. Apparently Dean's not the only one with severe memory loss lately. :/ Anyway, I just tacked the chapter I forgot about onto the end of this one. So it's now really long, and chapter 10 should actually make _sense_. I have the portion I added marked, so just scroll to the author's note. Haha, wow. I am so baffled right now as to how I forgot about a chapter. **

"Okay Dean," Sam said, checking the perimeter again, "Here's the deal. Remember all the times I wished that you would just _stop talking_?" he loaded a few more shells into his gun and snapped it shut with a click. "Couldn't you have picked a time when we were _not_ in the middle of a forest surrounded by the walking dead?"

No answer.

"You know what," Sam muttered, thoughts racing to get around the cliff of panic so he could find a plan, "I'm going to walk to the car and burn all of your cassette tapes."

No answer.

Sam shook his brother as hard as he could until thoughts of shaking baby syndrome came to mind, but Dean didn't even notice. Luckily the zombies were lacking as well, though panic was rising in him like a flood. "Damn it Dean," he said, "Come _on_," he gave him one last earthquake shake and pushed him, hard. Dean fell backward and landed with a thud on the forest floor, body still rigid.

Sam glared down at his brother's lack of reaction. "Great," he said, snatching Dean's shotgun from the ground and shoving it inside the gun bag. "Great," he said again, scowling around at all the bodies. He punted the stereo Dean had brought with as much force as he could muster. It sailed off and nailed the base of a tree, throwing clods of dirt into the stream. He turned back to Dean. "When you wake up…" he began, pointing at him accusingly. He trailed off, and groaned. "I'll be so relieved it's not even funny. But then I swear I'm going to kick your ass," he finished, and slung his brother over his shoulder.

**SNSNSN**

By the time Sam reached the Impala, he was pissed. Lifting Dean was…well it was kind of like carrying a massive sack of potatoes, except you couldn't put it down and there were roots to trip on and trees to walk into and it was dark. Oh, and there were zombies lurking nearby ready to feast on human flesh.

Sam lowered his brother onto the backseat, fished in Dean's jacket for the keys, and then climbed into the front seat. He slammed the door so hard that it would have made his brother scream a stream of profanities if he had been awake. Sam glanced in the mirror, hoping to find Dean aware and lunging at him.

Nope.

Sam turned the keys in the ignition. He sped down the road to get to the hotel as quickly as possible, secretly hoping that Dean would wake and throttle him for driving recklessly, but again, no cigar.

Sam called Bobby when he was halfway back. It went straight to voicemail.

Convinced that decades of mad scientists and movie producers were laughing in his face, Sam sped into the hotel lot and jammed on the brake. He stepped out of the car and nearly stepped on a dark haired woman sitting on the curb, a cigarette trailing from her mouth. She eyed him wearily.

Sam opened the back door and heaved his brother out and onto his shoulder. He turned toward his room, finally meeting the woman's perplexed gaze. "No, we're not gay. Yes, I'm covered in blood. No, it's not mine. Now go inside and lock your damn door."

Sam trudged past her and into the dingy room they called home at the moment, slamming the door and dropping his brother gently on the bed. He tried calling Bobby again. Voicemail. _Damn. It. _

He had closed Dean's eyes earlier so that they wouldn't dry out, and now he pried one open and examined it. The pupil reacted to the increase of light, but that was all he got. Sliding the eye closed again, he noticed the heat coming off Dean's skin. He got the thermometer and wedged it in his mouth until it beeped. The little screen read 100.5, and he squirmed. If it kept rising…

Sam pushed the thoughts back and lifted up his brother's sleeve to check the bite. He instantly wished he hadn't.

"Ahh…" Sam muttered hoarsely, staring. Long black slits on Dean's skin extended past the strip of gauze that he had previously used to bandage the wound. The cuts were oozing a black liquid. Sam slowly pulled the bandage off.

He gaped.

Trying to remember how to breathe, Sam ripped his brother's shirt off his shoulder. He sat back on the bed, hand unconsciously still entwined in Dean's shirt. The new cuts hadn't been made by the zombies; they had spread from the bite, pumping the infection outward.

The gauze from the wound smelled like something had died.

Sam tossed the gauze into the plastic garbage can by the bed and bolted to the bathroom, where he promptly hurled the contents of his stomach, and possibly his intestines, onto the tiled floor. Gasping, he pressed his forehead into his hands and fought back a scream.

**SNSNSN**

Bobby had to be dead. Mauled by demons, bleeding out on the linoleum, _dead_. That was the only explanation for why he hadn't answered his phone or, at the very least, responded to the many frantic and near-incomprehensible voicemails Sam had left him.

Sam sat at the edge of Dean's bed, watching him. Well, researching on his laptop, officially, but mostly just watching. It was difficult to research when every other supposed cure suggested a bullet to the brain. _Something Dean was bound to demand at some point_, Sam speculated with teeth clenched.

It had been three hours since his return to the room. Since then he had cleaned Dean's wound with every disinfectant they owned, scoured it with holy water (worth a shot), poured holy water down his throat (also worth a shot), and re-bandaged the spreading wound.

Now he was stuck researching, and since he couldn't leave Dean alone in the room he was dependent on what people posted on the Internet. The suggestions seemed mostly guesswork, and he couldn't tell which suggestions—if any—were backed by actual firsthand experience with zombies. It was frustrating.

Some people suggested amputation of bitten limbs right after the bite, because the first thing everyone thinks after a friend gets chomped by a weirdo is 'Oh shit, I should run over and ninja slice off their limb to prevent infection.' Still, even if he had done that, the procedure didn't have a hundred percent success rate and might require a bullet to the brain.

Others suggested quick fixes to give the individual more time before chowing down on friends. One guy suggested using tourniquets to slow down the infection—which might have bought them more time if Dean hadn't been bitten somewhere complicated like a _shoulder_. Ultimately, Sam ended up dismissing the idea because it was too late in the game and the remedy was still just a patch job before the seemingly inevitable bullet to the brain.

One girl had posted that the only way to stop the infection was to have the infected individual willingly bite another zombie. Bite…another…zombie.

If he hadn't been so worried about his brother, Sam might have sought that particular girl out and put a bullet through _her _brain.

So far, the only logical explanation for the new plague of zombies was voodoo, and Sam wanted nothing more than to go find the source of the infection and, possibly, the bastard responsible for it. Unfortunately, that meant leaving the room, thereby leaving Dean, who was currently about as capable of survival as a newborn kitten.

Sam glanced at the door and then back at his hands that were clenched in his lap. _Nope, not leaving. _

He just wanted Dean to wake up—no, he just wanted Dean to wake up and still be _Dean_. Anything else was an added bonus. He shut his laptop with a click and leaned back onto the bed, exhausted. _I'll just close my eyes for a second…_

**SNSNSN**

_Sam sat in the corner of a crowded department store. Blood coated every shelf and rack of clothing, and the escalator was a mess of amputated limbs. Bobby chased after a twenty foot grizzly that was wearing his hat and chewing on his cellphone. Ahead in the lingerie section, Dean stood amidst a crowd of supermodels, each wearing enough clothing to cover the surface of a small teacup. _

"Sam?"

_As he watched, Dean lifted one girl's curled brunette strands of hair to reveal a brain. It looked suspiciously like cherry pie. _

_Taking a spoon, Dean plunged it into the girl's brain and transferred a glob of brain matter pie to his mouth, smiling. The girl giggled and kissed him long and hard. The floor of the store began shaking wildly, and Sam leaned back against the wall to brace himself—_

"Sam!"

Sam's eyes snapped open as he woke up and his reflexes took over. He pushed against the thing that was holding his shoulders, managing to knock it back a little before realizing that the 'it' was actually his brother.

"Dean," Sam whispered, and was up in an instant, looking Dean up and down and gripping his good arm to make sure he was really there. "Dean?"

**(Author's note: Below is the portion I accidently forgot to post the first time through.)**

"Appears so," Dean said, trying not to panic that he couldn't remember how he had gotten back to the room or what had happened in the forest. The look on his brother's face wasn't helping. "What…what happened?"

Sam shook his head and gently pushed his brother away and into a sitting position. He stood and walked to the wall, hands on his head, and stood there for a moment, breathing.

"Sammy?"

"You've been out for hours," Sam said, without looking at him, "You've been practically comatose, your bite looks like _road kill_, and Bobby's gone AWOL."

Dean's eyebrows furrowed, "Bobby…?" he questioned, grasping at something.

"Isn't answering his phone," Sam said, "Or voicemails. God knows I left plenty. Don't touch your shoulder," he shot at him, noticing that Dean was pulling at the new gauze covering the bite.

Dean paused, caught in the act. "How bad?"

"You don't want to see it," Sam said.

"So _that_ bad, then," Dean said, discreetly looking his brother over for injuries. "Are you—"

"I'm fine," Sam said, knowing what he was going to ask, "You're not."

"What definition of fine are we using here?"

"The state of not becoming a flesh eating zombie."

"I doubt that's in the dictionary."

"Like you've read the dictionary."

"Sorry, I forgot it's your favorite book. Probably have it memorized."

Sam ignored him. "Focus. We need to figure out where and why the zombie thing started if there's any hope of finding a remedy. Since Bobby's out of the equation…" Sam said, trailing off. "You talked to him last. Did he say anything about doing a hunt?"

Dean looked at him blankly. "What?"

"Bobby," Sam repeated slowly, "Did he say he was on a hunt? Maybe he's in trouble."

"Uh…" Dean said, thinking furiously and coming up empty. "Sam…"

Sam plunged on, "Anyway, we should move. I did some research, and either we're on candid camera for a new reality show—and if that ends up the case I'm going to brutally murder all of the staff—or this is probably some kind of voodoo. I'm thinking there's someone out there behind the whole thing— the sites I've looked at call him a bokor, or sorcerer—and he would use these certain powders to…" Sam trailed off and snapped his fingers in front of Dean's face. "Dean."

Dean's eyes snapped up. "Huh?"

Sam sighed in relief. "Thought you checked out again."

Dean shook his head, cringing at the effort it took to move even a little. "Feels like I'm moving through concrete or something," he said, blinking hard. "An' it's tough to focus."

"I'm just happy you're conscious," Sam said softly. "I was going crazy here by myself."

Dean swallowed hard, trying to ignore the bad taste in his mouth and the stench coming from his shoulder. This was bad. He knew it, and, as much as he wanted to hide the severity of the situation from his brother, he knew that Sam already knew it as well. "Sam," he said, "I have no idea how long I'm gonna stay conscious. Or even me."

Sam knew where this was going and he didn't want to hear it. Not now, not ever. "I know," he said, "That's why we have to move fast."

"What if we can't find it?"

"We will."

"What if it's not voodoo?"

"We will _find it_, Dean!" Sam shouted, his voice cracking. He leaned too far to the side and his laptop fell off the bed with a thud. "Shit."

Dean flinched. "Sammy…" he said, reaching out to put a hand on his brother's arm.

"Just…just stop," Sam said, shaking him off, "I don't want to hear this right now."

"Hear what?" Dean asked. He persisted until he had Sam's arm tight in his grip. "Sam? Hear what?"

Sam paused. "The 'put a bullet through my brain' speech," he said finally, looking like a kicked puppy. "I don't want to hear it."

_And now it's time to redirect the conversation. _"Oh, _that_ speech," Dean said, thinking fast, "I wasn't going for that speech, was actually about to plunge into the Miss America speech. But if you don't want to hear my plans for world peace…"

"I don't."

"Your loss."

"Doubtful."

"Right," Dean said, catching himself picking at his shoulder again. He lowered his hand to his side and gritted his teeth. "Sam…what happened? I need to know. I mean…we were in the forest…the zombies?"

"You remember that. That's good."

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother's expression. "Right. Don't talk to me like I'm some helpless victim in our cases. I know I'm in bad shape and blacking out all over the place, but I'm still your older brother."

Sam nodded, relief visible in his eyes. "I know."

"So, lay it on me. What happened to the zombies?"

"I took care of them," Sam said.

"Uh-huh. I have a case of Alzheimer's, Sam," Dean said, troubled by the fact that some of his words were slurring together, "Remind me how you took care of them, exactly."

Sam shrugged. "I killed the zombies that attacked, and then I brought you back here," he said carelessly, like he was talking about a day at the office.

"All of them?" Dean demanded, trying to formulate some idea of what had happened, "How many?"

"I doubt it was all of them, just the ones that attacked."

"Okay, so you went all Jason Bourne on their asses," Dean said, "Congrats. What did I do?"

"You…" Sam began, trying to think of a way to form the sentence so that Dean wouldn't hate it and coming up empty, "You checked out."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you just stood there holding your gun up and stared off into the woods."

"While you fought them off?" Dean said, horrified. _Shit. Never should have suggested leaving the room, not like this. _

"I told you already," Sam said, "I took care of it," he leaned back and yawned, and Dean noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

"You look terrible," Dean said.

Sam smiled. "Thanks," he said. He sat there a moment and then pulled out his phone.

"Who you calling?" Dean asked.

"Bobby," Sam said, scowling when the call went to voicemail again. He hung up and threw the phone down onto the bedspread. "Like we don't have enough going on," he said, frustrated. "How are we supposed to check up on him too? I don't even know where he _is_."

Dean stayed silent for a moment. "Why would we worry about him?"

"I know, we shouldn't," Sam said, absently rubbing the back of his neck, "He can take care of himself. I just can't help worrying…I mean, with Dad this was normal, but Bobby usually…"

"Usually what?" Dean prodded, unsettled.

"Usually answers his calls. At least, he does when it's us," Sam said. He looked Dean over critically. "You're looking a little better. Color's coming back."

Dean looked at him skeptically. "Really?"

"I think so. And if it's not I'm going to pretend it is," he said, standing and walking across the room. "So are you ready to go?"

"Uh…" Dean said, brow furrowed. He exhaled slowly. "No. Not yet."

Sam froze in mid-step, halfway to his bag. "What?" he stammered, half expecting to have heard wrong. Dean was _always _ready to leave. Even when he was seriously injured or only partially conscious. His heart started pumping faster. "Why?"

Dean was silent a moment. "Don't freak out."

Sam turned completely around and was back beside his brother in an instant. "Shit. What's wrong?"

"Sam…" Dean said, reaching out and pushing him back gently, "You're freaking out. I told you not to."

"And that's supposed to stop me from freaking out?" Sam demanded incredulously, arms spread wide.

Dean winced. "Yeah. Probably not my best plan ever. Thoughts are still kind-of muddled. Do I have a fever?"

"Yes."

"That explains a lot."

"Dean," Sam said loudly, "What's _wrong_?"

"Nothing," Dean said hurriedly. It would have been more convincing if the word hadn't cracked in his throat. He coughed. "I just have a question."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "A question?"

"Yeah," Dean said slowly, "It's not a question you probably want to hear me ask right now."

"Dean, look at me," Sam said, "I am _already _freaked out right now."

"I know. I feel partially responsible for that."

"You are _completely_ responsible for that," Sam said with emphasis, "Now just ask me the damn question."

"Fine," Dean said, "Uh…"

"Dean! The question."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Well, you keep mentioning Bobby and how he's missing and he usually helps us out…"

"Yeah, so?" Sam demanded.

"So…" Dean trailed off and then plunged onward. "Who's Bobby?"

**Thanks for reading, and sorry about the confusion! **


	10. Late Night Entertainment

**Thanks for the feedback! Your enthusiasm really keeps me going. Enjoy. **

Sam's heart skipped a beat. "You're kidding," he said flatly. "Tell me you're kidding."

Dean shook his head.

"Dean, I am near the end of my rope, here," Sam said tensely, "_Don't_ play with me."

"Sammy, I'm not. I wouldn't, not when I'm…" he swallowed hard. _Not when I'm dying. _"Not now," he amended, "Who's Bobby? How do we know him?"

Sam gaped at him, mouth open. "Shit," he breathed.

"Sam," Dean said apprehensively, "You're freaking out. I told you not to freak out."

"Who, me?" Sam said, and laughed loudly, "No, I'm not freaking out. Nope. Why would I do that, you're just having _severe memory loss—_"

"Sam, stop it," Dean said, "You know if you freak out then I'm going to start freaking out and we both know that never ends well."

"Well you _should_ be freaking out."

"That's comforting. Your bedside manner kinda sucks."

"Damn it Dean, you have to remember Bobby," Sam said, trying to restrain the hysteria in his voice when Dean's baffled expression didn't lift, "Wears an old beat up hat, helps us on hunts, gives us a place to stay sometimes…" he trailed off expectantly.

"Uh…" Dean said.

"Oh my god," Sam said, pacing to the door. He turned back, arms raised at his sides, "Come on, _think_. Bobby Singer. The guy that kicks our asses when we do something stupid. He's practically a father figure, for Christ's sake, you can't tell me you don't know who he is!"

Dean looked helplessly at him. "Sammy…I've never heard of the guy."

Sam charged back at him. "Phone."

"What?"

"Give me your phone," Sam demanded, practically shouting now.

Dean fished inside his jacket and pulled it out. Sam snatched it from his hand before he could offer it over. "Look," Sam said, scrolling through a menu and thrusting the small screen inches from his nose, "Right here. 'Bobby.' You called him _two days ago. _Remember?"

"No," Dean said, "Sam, I'm sorry."

"Don't…don't apologize," Sam said, voice strained. He tried to take a few deep breaths, but his throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. "We knew this might happen, I mean, confusion, memory loss…"

Dean couldn't think of anything to say that would help, so he just nodded.

Thinking furiously, Sam tried to come up with another angle. "Uh…can you remember other people? How about…how about Gordon?"

Dean was dismayed to see that he was drawing another blank, but he wasn't about to say so. "Oh, yeah, I know—"

"Who is he, then?" Sam demanded.

_Ah hell, Sam. Cut me some slack here. _ "He…uh…helps out on hunts."

Sam leaned heavily against the flowery wall. "You have no idea who he is," he said bitterly.

Dean hesitated a moment. "No."

"Do you remember anyone?" Sam asked desperately, "At all? Any names, faces…"

Dean ran a hand down his face. "I can't think of any. It's all blank."

"Not even Dad?" Sam said, his voice a whisper, "Or…or Mom?"

"No," Dean said, the realization hitting him like a sheet of cold water, "I can't remember anyone."

Sam felt as though the ground dropped out from under him. "Oh," he said. _Ohmygodohmygodohmygod—_ "Um. We should go. We need to find out how…we need to figure out how…how to…"

"Fix me?" Dean filled in.

"Yeah," Sam said, "Dean…Dean, I don't know _how_."

Dean's insides clenched. "Sammy…" he said, gripping his brother's shoulder. "Hey. It's okay."

"You don't remember _Dad_, Dean," Sam said, "You don't…you're infected, you're blacking out, and if we don't fix this soon you're going to lose your mind and become one of those…things. You don't even remember anyone. How does that make it okay?"

Dean swallowed hard. "I remember you," he said.

"Today," Sam said, "But for how long? You might not even know who _I_ am tomorrow."

"No, Sam," Dean said forcefully, "I'll know. There's no way in hell I'm forgetting my little brother. Look, we'll figure this out—"

A woman's voice, shrill and frantic, shattered through the silence outside and cut Dean off mid-sentence. He hesitated, his feverish mind unable to quickly assess the situation. Sam, on the other hand, was up and out the door in a few seconds flat, leaving him alone in the room. He struggled to his feet and the world spun, causing him to grab onto the wall for support. "Sam," he shouted after him, "Wait!"

Sam didn't listen. The streetlight in the parking lot illuminated two silhouettes struggling on the pavement. The woman shrieked again, pinned beneath a larger figure.

Sam lunged toward the pair and delivered a swift kick to the man's upper back, sending him tumbling to the side and away from the girl. The man turned his face toward Sam and snarled, drawing his gums back from his teeth. His eyes were colorless and wild.

"Hey! What's going on out here?" A rough voice demanded. Sam saw a heavyset man lumbering toward them out of the corner of his eye. More civilians. Fun-freakin-tastic.

Unfortunately weaponless, Sam planted himself firmly between the attacker and his victim. He recognized her; she was the dark haired woman he had nearly stepped on earlier. She was gasping for breath, her hand pressed against her throat. Blood gurgled up between her fingers. "_Help_," she rasped, reaching for him with the other hand, "Please!"

The zombie lunged at Sam, jaws snapping wildly. Sam kicked it back again, sending it sprawling into a minivan. It howled.

The second civilian had slowed his pace toward them, his face a twist of shock. "What…"

"Call an ambulance," Sam shouted at him, trying to get him to leave the area.

The man didn't move. "That's old Jack Wilson's boy," he said, eyes locked on the zombie. He took a step closer. "Jared?"

"Stay back!" Sam shouted at him.

Too late. The newly zombified Jared spotted the fat guy and made a beeline for him, arms extended.

A shot went off, and then another. The second shot sliced through the zombie's leg, making him stumble. He regained his footing and shrieked, nostrils flaring.

Sam saw his brother standing in the doorway to their room, a handgun clenched in his fingers. He was still shaking badly, and Sam knew there was no way he was going to be able to aim worth shit with the gun. "Stay back Dean," he ordered.

Dean glared right back in a way that screamed 'hell no, little brother,' and stepped out onto the lot.

"Jared," the man whispered, pleading, "What are you doing? It's me. It's Tom."

Jared growled deep in his throat and crouched to spring. Sam jumped him, sending them both tumbling to the pavement. He delivered a punch to Jared's jaw and felt the man's teeth graze his knuckles. _Shit._

Sam pulled away, glancing at his hand. The skin wasn't broken. He tried to twist away but Jared tore into him with his fingernails, digging gouges into his side.

Another shot went off. The bullet lodged in the concrete beside them. "Can't get a clear shot," Dean shouted angrily.

"Give it to me," Sam shot back, trying to fight his way out from under Jared's flailing limbs. Pain flared through his side, and as he flinched the zombie lunged down to feed.

Dean grabbed Jared's shoulders and heaved back, managing to yank him away from his brother. He could only manage to hold him for a few seconds before his legs gave out, but that was enough to allow Sam to slip away. "Sam," Dean said, and tossed the gun in his brother's direction.

Sam snatched the gun up off the pavement and aimed it at—the fat civilian. He was standing in front of Jared, arms spread out protectively. "Now you just put that gun down, kid," he said, "No one's shooting anybody."

Dean barreled into the man right before Jared could take a nice bite out of his shoulder. The two men hit the ground hard, skidding to a stop beside the Impala. Dean let out an involuntary yelp of pain and went rigid. Something was worse; his whole body felt like it was on fire.

His path now clear, Sam fired, hitting Jared right between the eyes. The man fell. His body made a dull thumping sound as it finally came to rest on the blacktop.

Silence.

Sam's arm dropped to his side, finger still on the trigger.

"Noo!" the fat man bellowed, "No! You shot him, you bastard! You _bastard_! Why did you—"

"Sam!" Dean hissed through gritted teeth.

Sam's eyes snapped to his brother. He took in the look of agony on his face and then saw that his eyes were looking right past his shoulder—

Sam turned and, trusting Dean completely, blindly fired a second shot.

A screech like a thousand fingernails raking down a chalkboard projected right at him, inches from his face. He winced and threw a hand out, stepping back involuntarily even as his eyes focused on his target. It was the girl he had tried to save.

He had failed.

She stood before him, a mess of blood and matted black hair. There was a bullet hole in her throat from where he had shot; blood frothed from the hole as she breathed. She shrieked again and lunged, her mouth opening wider as though to swallow him whole and suck him down to hell. Her final words from only a few minutes ago regurgitated from that pit and screamed inside his head. _"Help…please…" _Sam squeezed his eyes shut and fired.

The screaming cut off abruptly.

Sam let the echo of the shot die away, guilt tearing away at his core. Two dead bodies. Two people they should have been able to save. He opened his eyes.

The fat man crouched on the ground, cussing and threatening him even as he cowered in fear of his life. His words all blurred together in Sam's head, and he didn't try to listen. Nothing he said meant anything. If events continued to unfold unaltered the guy was probably going to be worm food in less than a week, anyway.

It was an absence of words that drew him back to reality. "Dean," Sam said, whirling around. The parking lot came back into full focus; he could feel the night air on his skin and the bruises that were forming from where he had fallen; he could make out the man's profanities and hear the distant rumble of cars on the highway_._

He could see his brother on the ground, weakly reaching out toward him, desperate.

"Dean," Sam said, his voice coming out higher than usual. He dashed over beside him and dropped to his knees. "Dean, what's…what's wrong?" He reached out and grabbed his arm, intending to draw him closer.

Dean cried out in pain and pulled back from his brother's touch. He closed his eyes and gasped for air through clenched teeth, his face as white as chalk.

Sam jerked his arm away, horrified. "Sorry," he said, his fingertips hovering inches above Dean's chest, "I'm sorry, I didn't…Dean what's wrong? Tell me what's wrong."

"S'm," Dean choked, fists clenched, "Can't bre'th…'n fire…wrong…"

"You little piece of shit!"

Sam's temple exploded with pain. He blinked, ears ringing, and found himself lying flat on his back, black spots flickering in and out of his vision. His hearing faded out and he focused on the fat man's face twisted in fury above him, his plump fingers curled around a brick—

Sam twisted out of the way just as the brick slapped down. He scraped his forehead against the concrete as he pushed himself up and, half blind, swung his arm.

He connected with something solid, felt something snap. Blinking hard to keep the black spots at bay, he found the man on the ground in front of him, clutching his leg and howling. Dean was still beside him, eyes half open, fingers trying to weave their way into Sam's shirt. Sam shifted slightly, careful not to jostle his brother, and pulled his gun back out. Aimed. The man's eyes widened.

"You get…" Sam paused, blinking again and trying to regain more of his hearing, "Away. _Now_."

The man nearly wet himself. He jumped back and took off toward the lobby, screaming something about the police as he ran. Police. _Shit_.

"Sam…"

Sam flinched at the way his brother's voice hitched at the end of his name. "I'm here," he said, swallowing hard and tasting blood. _Fatty was going to call the police. There were two bodies on the ground, and more in the forest if someone went looking. Not to mention guns in their hotel room. They were destined for death row if they got caught now. _ He turned his attention back to his brother. "You with me?"

"Course," Dean said, breaths coming out in short pants. His fingers tightened around Sam's shirt. "Not…leavin…"

"Good," Sam said, trying to keep himself from panicking. He reached into Dean's jacket as gently as he could, searching for the keys.

"Ot'er…" Dean said, and swallowed, unable to finish.

Sam got it. _Other pocket. _"What hurts?" he asked tensely, leaning further over his brother so he could get at the other pocket. The keys were up near the top, thank god.

"Ev'thing," Dean breathed, "On fire."

Sam looked at the Impala. It was a few feet away from them. Might as well have been a mile.

"It hurt when I touched you," Sam said. It wasn't a question.

Dean grunted.

"How badly?" he asked.

Dean met his gaze. If his eyes could talk they would have been screaming.

"Dean," Sam said, trying—and failing—to keep his voice steady, "That guy's gonna call the cops. Probably already has. I…I have to move you."

Dean bit his lip. "Let's…" he gulped in some air and, lungs burning, gave up on a second word. He shot Sam a look instead. _Let's go, I'll be fine. _

Sam looked back toward the hotel. The guy was looking out the main window, a phone held to his ear. No choice. He looked back at Dean. "Stay conscious, you hear me?" he demanded, holding the keys so tightly he could feel them cutting into his palm, "You can't black out again. You _can't_. Every time you black out you get worse, and I don't want you to…to…" _Wake up and try to kill me? Forget who I am? _ "Just don't."

"Won't, Sammy," Dean said, making an effort to clearly annunciate the words.

Sam nodded and looked at the Impala. "Okay," he said, "Let's move."

**Review please. :) **


	11. Taken

**Hey! Sorry it's been so long but I had some writers block for a bit and then was busy for another bit so this got put on hold. But I've figured out what's going to happen, so things are back on track and you get a long chapter. Yay! As always, thanks for reviewing. Your input is always very helpful and appreciated. **

Sam pulled his feet underneath him and heaved, feeling his joints and muscles curse together in protest. Swaying on his feet, he put his arm on the hood of a silver minivan until he was almost certain he wasn't going to puke or fall flat. "Dean," he said, looking down at his brother's pale form, "Are you sure—"

"Just do it," Dean said. "Hurry."

Sam gripped the rearview mirror as an anchor and reached his other arm underneath his brother and heaved. The lifting part wasn't as bad as he had expected; he didn't collapse, mainly because his body had been trained to suck it up and deal with whatever shit he got into. Sam half carried, half dragged Dean to the Impala as his brother made a noise usually only reserved for cats. He managed to wrench the door open. The hinges groaned. Dean's body flopped. Fatty was shouting out the window at them like a lover who had found his fiancée in bed with some Brad Pitt look-alike.

"Hang on," Sam said.

Dean dimly recognized that he was being about as useful as a sack of potatoes, but he couldn't manage to send a message to his legs to stand the hell up and take some of the weight off Sam. The stabbing pain was surging through him like a thousand headaches caused by a thousand trips on the _Small World _ride at Disney World with that damn kid song playing over a thousand loudspeakers. He kept his face buried in Sam's shirt as he was stuffed into the backseat, aware that the muffled screech he could hear was coming from his own mouth. Hell if he knew he could make a sound like that.

Sam slammed the car door and slid onto the leather of the front seat. The keys shook in his hands as he shoved them into the ignition and started the car. The motor wasn't loud enough to cover up the sound his brother was making. He wished to god he was deaf so he wouldn't have to hear it. Ever. Again.

By the time he realized he was doing over 70 he was on a twisty road in the middle of nowhere. He didn't remember leaving the parking lot. He didn't remember leaving the town.

He only stopped when he nearly hit a thick tree branch that was lying in his lane. Something in his mind clicked and he remembered where the break was and what it was for. The car screeched and came to rest a foot from the branch, leaving black streaks of rubber on the road.

"Dean," Sam said, twisting himself around in the seat. The slants of light from a nearby streetlight illuminated his brother where he was curled up on the leather, his face buried in the crook of his arm. Sam reached out and lightly rested a hand on his head.

Dean whimpered.

"Dean," he repeated, pulling his shoulders through the tight space so that he was closer. "I'm sorry. I…we had to move. I'm sorry. I'm…just breathe, okay? Breathe. I'm right here."

Dean let out another shuddering breath and felt something warm trickle out of his mouth and drip onto the seat. He coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood. Damn.

Sam saw it and then pretended he hadn't. It wasn't as though he could magically fix internal injuries right now, and Dean would just tell him he was fine if he asked. Liar. They needed a hospital, and he knew Dean's response to that as well. No hospitals. Forget the psychic visions crap; he was practically a mind reader. And this was going to hurt like a bitch to clean up, even with the forthcoming distraction.

"Dean?"

Dean coughed again, trying to hold still so it wouldn't jostle his bite. "Y'h?"

"I've been thinking," he said, pulling some first aid materials out from under the passenger seat and trying to come up with something random, "Do you think I have what it takes to be the next Professor Trelawney?"

Dean breathed for a moment, then, "Huh?"

_Got you. _ "Think about it," he continued, pulling out a bottle of pills and unscrewing the lid, "I can already see the future, and that's helpful. I mean, I always spot the conveniently placed calendars, road signs, and other GPS related stuff so we can do our cross country traveling act and save people," he said, and tipped out a few pills into his hand. Paused. Poured a few more. "I bet Chris Angel couldn't even manage that."

"Wh't?" Dean muttered.

"Right, anyway, my _point _is that this whole saving the world gig has a tendency to kick our asses all the way to China. I think we need to consider a new angle of business. Open up, I've got some pills."

Dean, for once, didn't argue.

"And, possibly because I've just gotten my head bashed open with a brick by some guy that needs to go on the Atkins diet, I was just imagining the possibilities of what I could do with some tea leaves and a fortune telling booth."

Dean grunted as Sam rolled him over on his back so that he could check on the bite.

"Eh, this isn't too bad," Sam said, trying not to throw up at the stench of rotten flesh coming from his brother's body. Strips of skin had decayed and fallen away from his shoulder, revealing globs of what looked like tenderized beef and a piece of bone. "Yeah, you're fine. Just hold still. Where was I?"

Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he felt his brother pour some kind of liquid on his shoulder. It hissed and burned as it came in contact with his skin. "Booth," he ground out through clenched teeth.

"Right," Sam said, trying to stop his hands from shaking as he pulled long strips of dead skin out of the infection, "Booth. We could set up a shop somewhere. Clients could seek _us _out for help. I bet I could look into a cup of tea leaves and see the victim, murderer, location, and time all in one go. Easy. Plus, tea doesn't cause massive headaches or blackouts, so no more clutching my head and falling over at inconvenient times."

"Yeah," Dean managed to get out, relieved to see that Sam had moved on to bandaging his shoulder.

"So that's my plan. Comments? Questions? I'm a genius, I know, there's no need for you to say it."

"Freak."

"_Freaking _genius," Sam said, wrapping the wound. "I'm almost done, just hang tight," he said softly.

"To what?" Dean asked, almost sounding like himself.

Sam grinned. _That's it, bro. _"Whatever you like," he said, "You've already bloodied up the car."

"Your fault."

"_You_ made the mess, not me."

"Should've...outside," Dean managed.

Sam got it. "And then I would've had to move you again. You know, apart from what you might think, I don't particularly enjoy carrying your heavy ass everywhere, Dean. You're like a damsel in distress."

"You're a distress."

"Lame."

"Suck it."

"No," Sam said, finally finished. He put the unused bandages back in the case, "Absolutely not." He leaned back against the window, hands held in front of him like they were cursed. They reeked of roadkill and looked like he was in the process of gutting Bambi's mother.

"What?" Dean said.

Sam glanced up and once again found himself pinned down by the worried older brother stare. "Uh…" he said.

"Wash 'em off," Dean said, seeming to read his mind, "Glove box."

Sam scrambled with one of the cursed hands to open the compartment. "Hand sanitizer," he said, surprised. "I didn't know that was in there."

"Bought it…months ago."

Sam shrugged. He looked at the little pump for a moment. "Screw it," he said, and unscrewed the top. He poured half the bottle on his hands and rubbed them together vigorously. "You're gonna need to buy more."

"Got it," Dean said, and shivered. He felt like they were in the Arctic or something it was so cold.

Sam noticed and frowned. "Your fever's getting worse."

"I'm getting worse," Dean said.

"Yeah, well," Sam said tightly, "You can't become a zombie. You know my genius plan will fail if you become a zombie."

"The tea leaves plan?"

"Yep," he said, taking out his phone. He hit the call button and selected Bobby's name. _Please please please pick up. _"You can't help me look in the tea leaves and see that it was Colonel Mustard in the Drawing Room with the Knife if you're decaying all over the place and trying to eat the customers. It's bad for business."

"What do I look like, the stock boy?"

"Maybe if this was a Halloween costume shop," Sam said, trying not to cry like a kid who'd just dropped his chocolate ice cream cone when Bobby's phone went to voicemail for _the hundredth time_. He didn't say anything, just slipped it back in his pocket. A car drove past them slowly, curious about their situation but not concerned enough to stop.

"Well, I guess we should cure me," Dean said softly, "You know…before I eat you. That would be awkward."

"We're gonna have a shitty time hiding from the police now," Sam said, "I hate small towns. The cops are so bored that they get excited when some kid steals a pack of tic-tacs. We just killed a handful of people. That's unbelievably worse than tic-tacs."

"They'll all be zombies in a few days anyway."

"Oh. Well," Sam said, "If that's what we have to look forward—"

The driver's side window shattered. Glass projectile inward, swirling shards into and around him.

Sam exhaled, hands raised in shock by his face. A few additional pieces of glass dropped down onto the seat.

"Sam!" Dean hissed, trying to sit up. The ground spun, his head pounded. He felt cold. Limply, he fell back against the leather. "_Augh_, shit. Sam?"

"I'm fine," Sam said. He felt warmth spread from his chest and reached a hand up to pull at his button down shirt. His fingers came away wet. His eyes shot up, searching. A second shot resounded and the only streetlight shattered them into darkness.

"Where is it?"

"Stay down," Sam said, reaching under the seat. There was a click. He froze.

"Hands up," a man said, "No sudden moves or I blow your head off."

Cringing, Sam looked straight into the barrel of a pistol. _Damn. _Mind racing, he tried to think of some defense at point blank range. _How had they been surprised like this?_ A spike of pain shuddered though his chest, and he took a shallow breath.

"You a Winchester?" the gruff voice said. There was a crunch of gravel as the man leaned even closer into the car so that the barrel was against Sam's forehead.

"Get that the hell away from him or I'll kill you," Dean hissed, powerless to more or get up. He kept his gaze locked on the glint of the barrel.

"Right. That's cute," the man said, "But I wasn't talking to you. Are. You. A Winchester?"

Sam often prided himself at reading people and figuring out what they wanted. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be an apparent right answer for this situation. He couldn't make out the guy's face in the dark, so he couldn't try to read his expression. "Yes," he said finally, deciding on the truth. Right or wrong answer, the guy could have him dead in a second if he wanted.

"Younger or older?" he spat, pressing the barrel into Sam's forehead.

"Don't," Dean said desperately.

"Shut-up!" the man yelled, throwing flecks of spit in Sam's direction, "You open your mouth again and I'll decorate your brother's face with so many rounds that even _you _won't be able to recognize him."

"It's okay," Sam said levelly, hands still raised, "Everything's fine."

"Well, if everything's so damn happy-go-lucky, answer the question kid. Younger or older?"

Again, Sam tried to weigh the options. Came up blank. "How do you know who we are? How did you find us?"

The man shifted and fired. Sam flinched as he felt the bullet shoot past his face and heard it shatter the opposite window.

"Sam!" Dean roared.

Sam let his breath out in a hiss. "Here," he said.

"Not for damn long," he said, pressing the warm gun to his face once more, "So you're Sam. The younger kid with the freakish powers. I've heard of you. Figures you wouldn't be the one to get bitten."

Sam blinked. "You know about…" he paused, revelation dawning. "You're responsible for all this."

"You screwed up my operation here, Sam," he said, "I don't appreciate a freak show like you killing my creations. You've set me back at least a month. I'm gonna need more subjects, and that means more dead citizens and orphaned children, and that mess is gonna make it even harder to stay under the grid until I get what I want."

"Your creations?" Sam ground out, "They're _people_."

"Cut the crap," he said coldly, "I know you. You're no better than me with all that demon blood you got inside you."

Sam glared. He could barely make out the whites of his eyes by the light of the crescent moon. "You don't know me."

"And I don't plan to," he said, leaning in closer. "I'm here to kill you, Winchester. Tracked you down like the animal you are. Can't have you mucking things up any more than you already have."

Dean's breathing had sped up. His heart was racing. He needed a weapon. He needed a weapon and he needed to be able to move without screaming and he needed that guy dead and his gun miles away from his little brother. "Let's talk about this," he said.

The man laughed. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you. I've got a nice dirty cage set up for you back at the house. You can live in there until the virus kills you and you change—"

"You're not taking Dean anywhere," Sam said darkly, "I'll rip you apart."

"You'll be dead."

"You said you've heard of us? Then you'll know that Winchesters are hard to kill, and even harder to keep dead. You hurt my brother and I swear I'll tear my way out of the ground and find you."

He smiled, catlike, his teeth glinting in the moonlight.

Sensing what was coming, Sam wrenched his arm up and against the man's chest, pushing him back. He twisted his body to the side, trying to avoid the oncoming attack.

The man fired. Since he was off-balance from Sam's assault his skewed aim lodged the bullet into his shoulder instead of his brain. Sam let out a grunt of pain and slammed the door open and into his torso, catching him by surprise. It wasn't enough.

Sprawled on the dirt, the attacker fired off the rest of his clip in Sam's direction. Four shots. The aim was shitty, the light nonexistent.

He got lucky. Sam didn't.

Sam's body went numb. He took a deep breath, noticing how it suddenly sounded very loud in his ears. His hand felt like a concrete weight was hanging from his wrist. He dropped his arm away from the open door and he was falling, falling—

Dean was screaming something. Sam could feel his brother's rough hands snaking around him, pressing on the wounds. His head flopped to the side, and through heavy eyelids and long strands of hair he could make out his brother's face hovering above his own. Dean's mouth was moving frantically but all Sam could hear was his own loud breathing. He coughed and felt blood bubble over his lips and down his chin.

"_Sam_!"

Sam jerked at the shout, pupils straining to focus on the black blob that was his brother. The breathing wasn't so loud anymore, possibly because he couldn't manage to force himself to draw air into his lungs.

"Don't, Sam, _please_, c'mon you gotta _breathe_—"

"Time to go," the man quipped. "Your cage awaits."

Sam's eyes darted to the side in time to see him grab Dean around the torso and tug, intending to pull him from the vehicle.

Dean let out a gasp of pain and kicked back at him, refusing to relinquish his hold on Sam. "Get the fuck off of me!" he shouted, "No! I'm right here, Sammy, I'm not leaving, keep your eyes open—"

"Aw…did I shoot your baby brother? Is little Sammy dying?" he tugged again, and Dean's hold slipped back a few inches. "And here I'd heard that Winchesters are hard to kill. Seems easy enough."

Frantic now, Dean scrabbled to keep his hold. He was too weak to hang on, he'd lost too much blood, been sick for too long. He was slipping.

Sam weakly gasped for air, his hand fumbling for his brother. "D'n."

Dean let out a yell of rage as he lost contact with Sam and was tugged free from the Impala. He kicked against the man that restrained him, tried to push him away so that he could get back to his brother. He couldn't escape; the guy had him held tight as he dragged him toward a vehicle that was hidden further down the road. "No, _please_, he'll die!"

"That's the idea," he said, amused. "I give him a couple minutes. The cops won't be paying attention way out here, not after your stunt at the hotel. Might not find him for a while."

"Let me go," Dean sputtered, his air cut off by the arm wrapped around his neck, "Sam!"

"It's supposed to be hot and sticky tomorrow. About 95 degrees. The wildlife out here'll probably have his corpse all hollowed out and devoured before the cops find him. Maybe I'll pop back over here, take some pictures for you to hang up."

"_I'll kill you!_" Dean shrieked, tears running down his face in the dark, "I'll kill you!"

The man laughed. He opened the back of his van and tossed Dean inside, slamming the doors behind him.

**Please Review! Thanks. :)**


	12. Caged

**Hello again. I hope you're all enjoying the story so far. Sooo I had most of this chapter written and my laptop decided to shut down and install updates **_**without telling me**_**…and I lost over half the chapter. Damn technology. But I re-wrote it, and it seems no worse for the wear. I have to say that your reviews kept me motivated. You all are so positive and specific that I feel encouraged even when technology is out to get me (maybe there's a ghost in my laptop, haha). You guys are the best! :)**

Dean had never felt so powerless before this moment. He was trapped in the back of the van, nestled between beer cases and fast food wrappers. A crudely constructed wire barrier prevented him from making his way up front to strangle the driver, not that he could have crawled up there if he wanted to. His body didn't want to move; every pothole in the road shot hot pokers through his shoulder. Besides, he had used up every ounce of strength fighting to get to Sam. Which, naturally, led him to the final and worst blow to his situation. Sam was bleeding to death in the middle of nowhere, and there was nothing he could do to help him.

Dean rested his head against the cold window and fought against the urge to cry. He didn't cry. Crying didn't solve anything; it wasted time and made you dwell on circumstances that couldn't be fixed. _Like Sam, _a nasty voice crowed in the back of his mind, _He's probably dead by now. _

Dean gasped as the van hit an especially nasty pothole, knocking him flat on the carpet. It smelled like piss and blood and stale beer. He didn't have the strength to get back up, so he stayed down. He told himself that the tears running down his cheeks were caused by the pain. He told himself that Sam was alive. He told himself that he wasn't going to die alone in a cage and then lose his mind and become some kind of animal.

Time passed. It was getting hard to remain conscious when the van screeched to a stop. Gravel crunched. The back door swung open and _he_ peered inside. He looked to be in his mid-forty's. Light brown hair fell to his shoulders from a receding hairline. He saw Dean's position and chuckled, his green eyes flashing. "Sorry for the rough ride," he joked, "But there's no first class seating for dying folks."

Dean shuddered and tried to crawl deeper into the van. The man caught him by the ankle and pulled hard, dragging him back like a rag doll. Dean clawed at him, but that only made him laugh harder. He picked Dean up like he didn't weigh anything and carried him toward the house. The porch steps looked like they could collapse any day. Windows were broken, paint was peeling from the siding. The man unlocked the door and strode inside. He threw Dean down on a long wooden table in the dining room.

Dean went rigid at the impact and tasted blood. "You…bastard," he choked, trying to keep breathing.

"Oh _please_, Winchester," he said, dragging over a long bag and unzipping it, "I just killed your kid brother right in front of you. That puts us on first name terms. My name's Nick. It's a pleasure."

"Go to hell," Dean said, unable to think clearly enough to come up with anything original.

Nick stood up, a large pair of scissors in hand. He sat them on the table just out of Dean's reach and winked at him. "Normally this would be where I cut off your clothes and take a look at your bite," he said, "But I like your jacket. Mine just got ruined last week when this college kid bled all over it and stabbed a hole through the stitching. He's dead now. You and Sam just killed him back at the hotel. You killed my creature, I take your jacket. Fair's fair."

Dean gritted his teeth as the guy leaned closer and reached out, but the stabbing pain still stole his breath when Nick wrenched his jacket off of him. He laid there gasping for a moment, unable to move.

"This is nice," Nick said, holding the jacket against him. "Classy. Do you think it'll fit? I think we're about the same size."

"If Sam's dead," Dean whispered, "So are you. I'll burn you alive."

"Oh, I'm sure he's bled out by now," he said brightly, tossing the jacket onto a chair. He picked up the scissors and leaned closer. "Feel free to carry out that threat whenever you like. Meanwhile, I want a look at your bite. I'm going to cut off your shirt. I suggest you don't move."

The scissors were icy against his flushed skin. Dean shivered, trying to pull away.

"Interesting…" Devon said finally, laying his scissors back down, "The infection is really advanced. It's surprising that you're still alive…" he trailed off and smiled. "Little brother was taking care of you, wasn't he? Keeping it sterilized…possibly using holy water?"

"Stop talking about Sam," Dean growled.

"Definitely using holy water, then. Smart kid. Too bad he's off rotting in your car."

Dean lunged for the scissors.

"Whoa," Nick said, pinning Dean's hand down to the table with a thud, "Easy there. You've got a hell of a lot of spirit for a dying guy."

Dean hissed in pain as Nick squeezed his hand until his bones felt like they would break. He released the scissors.

Nick smirked and threw them back into the bag. "Dean, I've heard about your ego," he said, drawing something else from the bag, "I know you think you're the shit, and you might have been. I've killed hunters before. They talk. You and your brother are often a popular subject, and you sound like more fun than a three ring circus with all the crazy stunts you've pulled over the years. It's impressive, really."

"You've killed…" Dean began, and then coughed, another spurt of blood rising to his lips.

"This isn't my first gig, kid. You might be the shit, but compared to you I'm _god_. A god that's wise enough to stay under the grid. That was your mistake, making ties and all that. But don't worry, I give you a few more hours and the infection will fester so much that you won't even remember who you are. And you won't remember Sam, so you won't care that your brother's dead. That's my little present to you."

"Nothing is going to make me forget Sam. And he's _not _dead."

"How adorable," he said, grinning wide enough to show all his white teeth. He leaned forward and grabbled Dean's arms tightly and pulled them together in front of him.

Handcuffs. _God no. _Dean twisted, trying to pull out of his grip, but he might as well have been trying to arm wrestle Goliath. Nick slapped the cuffs on his wrists, squeezing so tightly that Dean thought they were going to draw blood.

"There," Nick said, "You're done. Whoever you were before—whatever you did, who you knew—forget it. I own you now," he said, zipping the bag back up, "I'm going to lock you up until you die and then I'm going to control your corpse. There's not a damn thing you can do to stop me."

Before Dean could come up with a retort Nick had slung him over his shoulder and strode from the room. The mishandling caused Dean's vision to blur together until he could barely make out colors and shapes in the house. All he knew was that he was being carried up, up, up.

**SNSNSN**

About twenty some miles away from Dean and the man who held him captive, Brandon Device sat at his kitchen table drinking coffee from a chipped Disney World mug. Every few minutes he would take a drag from a cigarette that was perched on a red china ashtray in the middle of the table, but mostly he just drank coffee. The coffee was spiked with Jack. Or, more accurately, the Jack was spiked with coffee.

A second man walked into the room wearing blood spotted hospital scrubs. Without a word he took the mug from Brandon and drained the contents of the cup with a single gulp.

Brandon looked down at his now empty hands with irritation. He reached over and grabbed the neck of the still half empty bottle sitting on the table and took a long pull. "Well?"

"He's screwed," the man said dryly, tossing the empty mug into the sink and washing his hands.

"You always say that," Brandon said grinning.

"Well this time I mean it," he said, "He was shot too many times. You found him too late and he lost too much blood."

"Come on, Chris. That last thing shouldn't even be an issue here. I brought you blood for the necessary transfusions."

Chris rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Of course. You brought me enough blood that I could have _drowned him _in it if I wanted to. Did you really have to steal _all _the donated blood from the last drive?"

"I didn't know his blood type and I wanted to make sure he could be saved. This guy is important."

"Important enough to cost me my job?"

"You haven't lost your job," Brandon said quietly.

"Yet," Chris retorted, "But I had to steal the ventilator that's keeping him alive right now. And the chest paddles. And all the meds for the last guy, and the painkillers for the one before that. All so you can carry on with all your little life-saving _adventures_," he said, putting finger quotes around the last word.

Brandon winced and picked at the label on the bottle. "Don't say it like that. Why do you always have to say it like that? I have to do this. I'm saving people."

"Yeah, well, I'm done," Chris said, laying his hands flat on the table. "I'm sick of you using me for this shit. I'm your brother, not your damn asset. I've already lost too many jobs because of you, and I'm not losing this one. I like it at this hospital. Other doctors respect me, and I'm helping people every day."

"I don't use you—"

"Next time this happens, don't come to me for help. Here's an idea—take whoever you 'find' to the _hospital_, where doctors and nurses are trained to save them."

"It's not that simple."

"Why?" Chris demanded. "Tell me why, Brandon. Make me understand."

Brandon hesitated, torn. "I…I can't…"

"Whatever. Just leave me out," Chris said, disgusted. He turned to walk away. Paused. "And you shouldn't drink this shit. You know how it affects you," he said, and swiped the bottle of Jack off the table. He walked to the door.

"Wait. Don't just…I'm _sorry_…Are we…" Brandon said, voice strained, and paused. "Are we still on for poker next week? Like usual?"

Chris hesitated a beat. "Yeah," he said, and then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Brandon groaned. He slammed his head angrily against the table. "Stupid…stupid…" he stood unsteadily and stumbled over to the guest bedroom where a figure was sleeping fitfully, attached to a ventilator. A bloody tray was perched on the bed stand. He walked over and thoughtfully poked four bullets around the tray. A number of false identification cards were also lying on the stand, most of them covered with bloody fingerprints. He swept them into the trash can with the bloody gauze and rubber gloves. They weren't necessary; he already knew who he had found. Taking a look at his face, he saw that the guy was as pale as paper; he would be dead right now if he hadn't known where to look for him.

"Come on Sam, wake up," he pleaded softly, "I need your help."

No response.

The bed springs squeaked as Brandon sank down on a corner to wait.

**SNSNSN**

Nick stopped walking in front of a giant oak door at the very top of the house. The first thing that Dean noticed was the smell. The stench of dead bodies and urine oozed from behind the iron hinges, making him want to gag.

As Nick unlocked multiple padlocks on the door, he grinned at Dean's reaction. "Don't worry," he said. "You'll get used to the smell. I've actually come to find it quite exhilarating."

The final padlock came off with a soft click and Nick opened the door. The full stench hit Dean like a wall, knocking the breath out of him. A single lightbulb flickered on the ceiling in the center of the room, dimly illuminating rows of small cages that were each about three feet wide and three feet tall. Colorless eyes peered up at them from every cage.

"Oh my god…" Dean breathed. When Nick began carrying him inside the room, the full terror of the situation hit him. Dean swung out and raked his fingernails up Nick's cheeks, intending to gouge his eyes out.

Nick dropped him. He landed in a two inch slop of foul smelling liquid. Before he could gather his bearings, Nick grabbed his ankle and pulled him through the liquid to the far corner of the room. As they passed, blackened arms with long, curled fingernails stretched out of cages and swiped at his bare torso and face.

"Here we are," Nick said, stopping at the only empty cage, "Your new home. I took the liberty of preparing it for you; I moved the previous tenant down to the basement," he trailed off, and smiled, "You'll have to excuse my giddiness. This is…so exciting for me. To have you, a _Winchester_, trapped here, helpless, and soon to be under my control…" he laughed, "It's a dream. You're the crown jewel of my collection. My greatest triumph."

Dean tried to push himself up out of the layer of shit on the tiled floor, but his arms wouldn't support his weight anymore and he splashed back into it. "There are more of these things in the basement?" he gritted out.

"And the barn," Nick said, unlocking the cage door, "Don't forget about the barn," he reached out and pulled Dean's boots off his feet. "You won't need these anymore," he said, and threw them further into the room where they slammed against a cage. The woman inside shrieked at the provocation and slammed her body into the wall of her cell over and over again, biting the iron bars and breaking her teeth as she babbled incoherently at them.

Shivering and barely able to breathe, Dean tensed, trying to prepare himself to fight back when Nick made his next move.

"Ready?" Nick said, smirking, and dug his fingers deep into Dean's bite.

Dean screamed. His vision cut out, nausea rolled, hearing ebbed; by the time he realized what had happened he was lying with his face submerged in the foul liquid, body crammed inside the cage. He lurched up with a splash and howled in anger, twisting his body around just as Nick slammed the door shut, cramming his long legs awkwardly inside the small space.

"No!" Dean screamed, trapped, "Let me out!" he maneuvered himself around so that he was kneeling at the front of the cage and tried to reach out of the cell to grab him, but his arms wouldn't fit through the bars with the handcuffs strapped to his wrists. Fueled by desperation, he slammed his body into the door instead. Again. And again. And again. It didn't budge.

Nick stepped out of his reach and sniggered. "Bye Dean," he said with a wave, and turned away, "Sleep well." He flicked the light off on his way out, throwing the room into darkness before he slammed the heavy door shut behind him and locked each bolt into place.

As Nick's footsteps died away in the hall, Dean drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face in his wet denim jeans. His head, though bent down, was still touching the top of the cage. His naked back was pressed against the bars as well, digging flecks of rust and old blood residue deep into his wound. He shivered.

"Sammy," he whispered, trying to block out a woman's high pitched shrieks in the cell across from him, "_Please_."

**Reviews are awesome…just like all of you! **


	13. Visions

**Thank you for letting me know what you think! It's always good to know what's working and what isn't. Enjoy!**

Sam dreamed that he was in a park, sipping cool beer with his brother underneath rows of pine trees. He dreamed that he crashed on the couch at Bobby's house after a particularly difficult hunt. He dreamed he quit hunting and went surfing off the coast of Hawaii. He dreamed that Gordon danced around his room wearing a pink tutu and gaudy paste jewelry while Aqua's _Barbie Girl _played in the background.

That was what finally woke him up.

As his mind resurfaced from the deep he realized that something was hurting him. Pain shot through his body, throbbing with each heartbeat. Trying to move only made things worse. He stilled, fists clenched at his sides, and drew another breath. Something was jammed down his throat. The notion threw his already confused mind into a panic and he tried to sit up.

There was a bang like something hit the floor. Footsteps. _Ah hell. Don't. Lay back...breathing tube…_

Sam heard but didn't register the voice. Sitting up was a desolate failure that only succeeded in intensifying the pain. One arm wouldn't move at all, just flopped around like a worm, and something was grabbing at the other as he tried to pull at whatever was lodged in his throat.

Something pricked his neck and the little consciousness he had acquired snapped off.

When he drifted awake for the second time, the first thing he noticed was that the tube was gone. Breathing hurt his chest so he tried to take shallow breaths as he fought to get his eyes open. The room smelled like a cinnamon candle was burning nearby, so he wasn't in a hospital. That by itself shot up all kinds of warning flags coupled with a very small shred of relief that he was lying on a bed instead of stuffed in some hidden basement. However, cotton sheets and candles didn't explain where Dean was.

Dean. Where was…? Sam finally managed to crack one eye open.

A young man sat at the edge of his bed, watching Sam's inner struggle with dark circles under his eyes. "Sam?"

The warning bells screeched. Sam tried to sit up, but this was coupled with the same pain and failure that accompanied the previous attempt. Sam managed to get his head propped against the headboard so that he was better able to stare down the _Not Dean_ that was invading his space.

Not Dean gestured haphazardly to the bedside table. "Uh…you want some water?"

Sam gazed stonily back while his muddled mind tried to figure out how to form words.

He stood and smoothed the sheet back down. "Listen…you're hurt pretty bad so you might not want to move right now—"

"Dean," Sam croaked out, fist clenched under the blanket, "Where?"

Not Dean scratched at his cheek. "He's…probably still alive," he said. He took in the deepening anger on Sam's face and realized that he hadn't made the best choice of words, "Not that I took him or hurt him or anything."

"Where?" Sam demanded.

"Nick has him," he said, throwing his hands up when Sam's expression didn't change, "Look, I didn't do anything to him, alright? Nick snatched him up before I got there, left you for dead in that car. I saved you…well…my brother's a doctor so he did most of the work, but I found you."

Sam felt helpless and groggy. His body didn't want to move, his mind wanted to go back to sleep, and his brother was missing. The first two problems prevented him from getting out of bed to solve the third problem, which made him want to punch something, which brought him back to the helpless and groggy problem that prevented him from getting out of bed.

"Sam?"

Sam blinked and reality snapped back. He was spacing out. He tried to focus on the pain to keep himself alert. "How do you know my name?"

The guy's face crumpled. "Uh…" he said, shuffling his feet, "Well…I kind of had a vision. At least, I think they're visions…they kind of match that power one girl in _Charmed _had when I used to watch…" he trailed off when he ran out of breath and started over, "Anyway, I had one about you."

Sam's thought process stopped swirling and fell back into familiar territory. He almost relaxed. Visions. That was familiar territory. He shifted in the bed and winced when the movement pulled something.

"Do you want more morphine?"

"No," Sam snapped, "I'm already so high I can barely follow you."

"Sorry," he said, and sat back down on the bed.

Sam pushed the pain back down. "Where's my brother?"

"Um…don't freak out…"

Sam's eyes hardened. _Damn it. _"Tell me. Now."

"Because you'll probably only hurt yourself more…"

"Tell me before I smash your face in with the stupid water jug that I can't reach."

He raised his hands in surrender. "I'm not a hundred percent sure, but if I had to guess I'd say that Nick probably has Dean locked up in a cage, so—"

That got through. "_What_?" Sam exploded. "Son of a _bitch_."

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"His house," he said, shrugging, "If Dean's infected it makes sense that he'd take him there so that he can…you know…become a zombie. You two found out about the zombies, right? Well Nick's the guy that's responsible for everything. He's some kind of voodoo guy on a power trip, but I'm not exactly sure what he wants."

Sam inwardly cursed how weak he was. He needed to get to Dean. Dean wasn't in any shape to be locked up right now, and there was no way in hell he was letting him die out there.

"Listen," the man said, drawing him out of his reverie. "I'm going to help you get him back. We just have to wait till you can focus on things. And move well enough to handle weapons. And get some color back. And, you know, be able to stand for a few seconds without falling."

"I'll stay here two more hours," Sam said. "That's it. Dean doesn't have much time. I need to be there."

He hesitated and then nodded, obviously scared. "Okay. I'm with you."

Sam breathed out slowly and leaned back on the bed. _Two hours wasn't going to be enough time…but it had to be. For Dean. _He focused his attention solely on the guy for the first time. His hair was a curly brown mess atop of an expression that screamed terror to him but would have gone unnoticed to some John Doe on the street. He wore a white button down shirt, black jeans and converse shoes. "Who are you?"

He swallowed. "I'm Brandon Device," he said, giving him a miniscule fake smile, "I'm…I'm an accountant."

"And you have visions?"

He shrugged, eyes darting around like he was confessing to his mom about a box of porn magazines in his room. "Sometimes," he said, picking at the blanket at the end of the bed, "Not often. Usually just once a year, and they always have to do with something local."

"So this town's a hot spot?"

His forehead creased. "What…oh. No. I move around a lot. Usually I end up freaking people out and have to leave town after each episode. I've only been here half a year," he said, and paused.

"Oh," Sam said, "Okay."

Brandon wasn't done. Not by a long shot. He continued, becoming louder and more frantic with each sentence. "Two months ago I started having a vision at least once a day, and every time I had a vision someone in this town or somewhere nearby went missing or got killed. I wanted to help, but…but there are fucking zombies, man. Real life zombies out of the movies, eating people and turning them into other zombies that go out and eat other people. I mean…I'm not cut out for this. I can deal with saving one person a year from some monstrositythat looks like a decaying Michael Jackson with fur or something_. _But not every day. Not this many. I can't even talk to my…" he stopped, winced, "I can't talk to anyone about it. No one knows. And then I saw you and Nick and Dean, and Nick said your name before he shot you, so I researched you and found out that you deal with this shit too, and I thought you could—"

"Stop," Sam interjected finally.

He blinked. "But I—"

"I have a headache," Sam said, shifting his weight, "Your words are muddling together. How much morphine did you give me?"

"But you got what I said, right?" he asked, and then plowed on before Sam could reply, "Good. Anyway, I figured that you could help me. And—"

"Shut-up," Sam growled.

Brandon clamped his mouth shut.

"You want to talk? Tell me everything you know about Nick, what he's planning, and the zombies. Tell me about the cages. Everything. Because I want to know, and I want to be ready. And when you're done telling me, we're going to go save Dean and burn the bastard's house to the ground."

**SNSNSN**

Dean wouldn't sleep.

Wouldn't, not couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't want to. His head ached, he couldn't stop shivering from sitting in the liquid, and his body had gone numb hours ago from being cramped in the cage. There was nothing he wanted to do more than just let himself sleep and escape everything for a few hours.

No, he could sleep. But he knew that if he fell asleep, he might not wake up the same. He might not wake up at all. And Sam was coming—he _was_, damn it—and he was going to remember his little brother when he got there.

It was cold. There were large holes in the roof, and cool wind blew through the cages with an eerie cry. Thunder boomed, and the storm that Dean had been anticipating for a while arrived. Rain began dripping through the holes in the roof, and then it poured. Dean looked up, letting the rain run off his face. It felt awful; he hunched his shoulders and tried to burrow his head further into his foul smelling jeans. The drops pinged off his head, neck, back. Every inch of feverish exposed skin was assaulted, and the patches of his jeans that had been drying off were quickly soaked again. Even worse, he could _feel _the water dripping down through his wound. There was nothing he could do about it.

Dean slammed his fist against the heavy bars and screamed. His voice didn't sound right; it was strained and off pitch. It was getting harder and harder to think clearly, and he wasn't sure he could form a full sentence if he tried. He hadn't tried. He was scared to try. He was even more terrified about his vision. He could barely see anymore, and could only make out blurry shapes and hints of color.

He was changing.

**SNSNSN**

Sam put his feet on the wooden floor and paused, readying himself to stand.

Brandon stood a few feet away. "This is too soon."

"I'm not letting Dean die," Sam said, and stood up. His vision spun, legs protested, but he stayed up. "There," he said, voice strained, "See? Easy."

"When you fall, try to fall back on the bed," Brandon said matter-of-factly.

"I'm not falling."

"You were shot four times," he said, "A little over a day ago. Most people wouldn't even be conscious yet, let alone walking around."

"I'm not most people."

"Yeah, I get that vibe," Brandon muttered, watching him take slow steps to the adjacent wall and then back.

The doorbell rang.

Brandon glanced over, arms crossed. He didn't move.

"You expecting company?" Sam said, slowly rotating his good arm to get the blood moving.

"No," Brandon said. The doorbell rang again. And again. He still didn't move, though his face paled slightly. "Don't worry about it."

The door opened with a barely noticeable creek of old hinges.

Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "Well?"

Brandon gritted his teeth, obviously upset. "Chris?" he called.

"Who else?" a voice called back. Footsteps ambled toward them, "I thought I'd check on the guy we saved, make sure he wasn't going to die. Why didn't you answer the—what the _hell_?"

If Sam had been in a better mood he might have laughed at the expression on the second man's face when he saw him walking around. "Hi," he said.

Chris' jaw tightened. "Brandon…" he said dangerously.

"I can explain," Brandon said quickly.

"I'm fine," Sam said, trying to ease some of the tension in the room. It didn't work.

"No you're not. Are you kidding me? You were shot _yesterday_. Four times. Of course you're not fine!" he snapped, turning back to Brandon, "Why did you let him out of bed? I didn't think even _you _could be that stupid."

Brandon winced. "He insisted…"

"So what? The guy's a pushover right now. _Wind_ could knock him over. Put him back in bed and give him more morphine."

Brandon paused, caught in an inner struggle. "No," he said finally. "He's fine."

"Are you on something?" Chris hissed, stepping closer, "He should stay in bed at least a week. In a _hospital. _If he keeps this up he'll wear himself out. He could die."

"Yeah, well, what do you know?" Brandon shot back.

Chris blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"I've got this under control, I don't need you," Brandon said, choking a little on the words. He paused, and then added, "I don't want you here."

Sam winced. _Ouch. _He imagined using that on Dean. In his mind, the scenario didn't end well.

Chris' face had become a mask. "You don't?" he said flatly.

"No."

The tension peaked. For a moment Chris looked like he was going to slug his brother, but he just turned and walked away. The two heard the front door slam shut and then listened as a motorcycle sped away.

Sam glanced over at Brandon. The guy looked like his puppy had been run over by a truck right in front of him. "Sorry," he said.

"No, it's okay," Brandon said sadly, picking at a scratch on his arm, "I might die today. I'm not dragging Chris down with me. He's finally paid off his college loans and he likes his job at the hospital. He's…he's been seeing this really great woman. She an elementary school teacher. She teaches first grade kids how to spell and color in the lines and glue things together," he said, "I don't have a place with that kind of life. I'm not normal. I just screw things up."

Sam slipped on the shirt that Brandon had sat out for him. It was difficult to thread his useless arm through the sleeve, even with Brandon's help. "He doesn't hate you," Sam said finally, working on the other sleeve, "He's just mad."

"I want to tell him everything," Brandon said helplessly, "But I can't. I can't tell him about the visions and what I'm doing because then he'll be involved. And he'll have to leave everything again. I shouldn't have had him help me with anything in the first place. I messed up."

"He likes helping you," Sam said. He worked his way up the buttons, slowly.

"I'm gonna disappear after this one," Brandon said. His voice shook a little. "I'm gonna leave without telling him." He looked at Sam, waiting for a response.

"He'll hate that," Sam said.

"I know," Brandon whispered. "I'll hate it too. But that's what I'm doing," he said. He waited.

"Okay," Sam said.

Brandon nodded. Paused. His face hardened again, and he helped Sam walk to the kitchen where he poured him a tall glass of water from the tap. "So," he said, "You have guns, right?"

"In the trunk," Sam said, sipping the water. "Can you shoot?"

"Yeah," he said, "I taught myself when the visions started. It's hard to save people if you don't know how to defend yourself."

Sam drained the glass and tossed it into the sink. "Let's go," he said, and walked to the door. They went outside. It was raining. The drops formed deep puddles on the driveway and poured down through grates into the sewer.

Sam decided to let Brandon drive. He knew where Nick's house was, and he hadn't just been shot. When they rescued his brother, he'd let Dean scream at him all he wanted. Of course, with the way the Impala looked right now, he'd be upset enough anyway. Large stains of dried blood coated the front seats, dashboard, and windshield. The blood was caked down in Dean's tape collection and had splattered across the top of the back seat. Sam knew the majority of it was his. He tried not to look at all of it as he swept the broken glass off his seat before getting in.

"You were really close," Brandon said, guessing what he was thinking about, "I didn't think you were going to make it at first. You were right on the edge when I found you."

Sam nodded and closed his door. "Thanks."

"No problem," he said, using the windshield wipers and fluid to clear the rest of the blood off the windshield. "Now let's find your brother."

**Will they get there in time? Will Dean still be Dean? Is Sam going to pass out before he can do anything? What will Dean say when he sees his car? So many questions! Review and let me know what you think about the story! Thanks. **


	14. The Terminator

**Hello again! Thanks for all the reviews! I had a bit of writers block starting this chapter (Dean apparently didn't want to be saved) but it all worked out eventually. The brothers are reunited...ish. Enjoy.**

Under Sam's insistence, Brandon parked the Impala over a mile away from Nick's house, twenty yards off the road, and down a moderate embankment covered with rocks and uneven soil. Sam slapped a rifle in his hands, selected a pistol for himself since he only had one good arm, and started _jogging_ toward the house.

Jogging.

Brandon could only take so much in one day, and his mind nearly gave up at that point. Guys don't go for a jog after they've been shot four times the previous evening. They stay in bed, unconscious. And they don't move, thank you very much. No, Brandon concluded, Sam must be some kind of Arnold Schwarzenegger terminator. He expected to see bits of machine poking out through his skin from where he had been shot. He expected to see glowing red eyes. He expected some metal blade to shoot out of his arm and into some unfortunate baby rabbit or possum that wandered too closely into his path.

"You sure you're not some kind of robot from the future?" Brandon panted as he and Sam reached Nick's property and inched forward toward the house. "You don't even look winded."

Sam's eyes swept back and forth across the yard, taking in every detail. "No. I'm human," he said, and paused, "Human-ish."

Brandon let that one slide.

"Car's gone," Sam said, pulling out his shotgun, "He does have a car, right?"

"Uh…yeah. He owns a white van. Bad paint job, dirt streaked windows…looks like something pedophiles use to lure kids in with candy."

"Appropriate," Sam muttered, searching the windows for signs of life. "Do you see movement?"

"No," Brandon said, kneeling beside a wilting sunflower plant, "I don't. So…what? The killer runs out of Frosted Flakes and chocolate milk so he makes a Wal*Mart run?"

"I doubt it," Sam said, "That's too easy."

"Maybe we got lucky."

Sam snorted. "I don't get lucky," he said.

"What do you mean you don't get lucky? You're alive, aren't you?"

"Oh, well, _yeah_. But that's not all that big of a deal. _I _always survive fine; it's everyone else that dies."

Brandon coughed. "What?"

_Oops. _Sam cleared his throat apologetically. "I didn't mean _everyone_, just, you know, it was a generalization. Like all white people can't dance…or people with red hair don't have souls…" he trailed off, "Forget it, okay? You'll be fine."

"Uh," Brandon said, clutching his gun tighter.

"Just stay close," Sam said, edging closer to the porch and wishing he had full use of both arms, "Keep your guard up."

"Mm," Brandon muttered. Now that they were so close to the house, his throat seemed to be closing up. He didn't trust himself to say anything intelligent. He didn't trust himself to do anything, either. The rifle was too heavy. His aim was mediocre at best. The house loomed over them, its windows laughing at him with mouths of broken glass. Why the hell had he come? This kind of rescue mission was way out of his league.

They made it to the sidewalk and then carefully treaded up the creaky porch stairs to the main entrance. Sam kneeled over and examined the lock. He scowled. While the rest of the house looked like it was going to fall over at the slightest touch, the door was new. The lock was tough. "Keep a lookout," he said, getting out his tools.

Brandon groaned and scanned the area, praying to every god he'd ever heard of that he wouldn't see anything. "So…hypothetically speaking…" Brandon said nervously, "If we were in a movie, which one of us would be the main character?"

"You're not dying, so drop it," Sam said shortly. The lock clicked and he promptly stood. "Keep an eye out for traps."

Sam slowly inched the door open with his palm. He needn't have bothered. Relieved at the lack of a trip wire, he stepped across the threshold and ushered Brandon inside after him. Just in case Nick returned while they were inside, he closed the door behind them and locked it to avoid suspicion. Brandon's face paled a bit at the action but he didn't protest. After a glance at their surroundings, Sam decided he wasn't too thrilled about being locked in either. The walls were a canvas of symbols etched in blood. Butcher knives jutted from the walls at odd angles. Slimy organs floated in jars atop dusty shelves.

"Let's find Dean," Brandon said, shifting his weight nervously. The floor creaked. "Now."

Sam nodded and stalked across the blood crusted carpet and into the dining room. Each step jolted his insides and made his body ache a little more. His torso was throbbing. He held his pistol ready to fire at anything that moved.

Half a ribcage was lying on the dining room table. The bones were picked clean.

Brandon gagged and looked away, trying not to be sick. Flies buzzed around the bones in their search for rotten meat. Sam gritted his teeth. _Not Dean not Dean not Dean not Dean—_

They hurried through the dining area, passed through a roach infested kitchen, and wound up at the bottom of a rickety staircase. Brandon's phone buzzed. Wincing apologetically, he pulled it out of his pocket and silenced it. "Sorry," he whispered. He glanced at the caller ID. Chris.

Sam was already halfway up the stairs when Brandon pocketed the phone, and he took the stairs two at a time to reach him. He expected a reprimand but didn't get as much as a glance. As they continued through the second level, Brandon's phone rang silently a total of seven times. All the calls were from Chris, and he didn't notice any of them.

Sam was about to give up searching upstairs and try to locate the basement when he saw _the door_. It was a magnificent structure, forged of iron and bound with five padlocks. It stood arrogantly in their way, the mother of all doors.

"Shit," Brandon said, rubbing his eyes, "Shit. How long is this gonna take to open?" He crouched over Sam as the younger Winchester began picking at the bottom lock.

"Don't know," Sam grunted, his face lined with concentration. His tools made soft clicking noises as they ground against the inner locking mechanism. He worked steadily, trying to keep his mind on the job. It was best not to imagine what he might find behind the door. The first lock snapped open after five grueling minutes, and Sam pulled it off and tossed it at Brandon before wordlessly starting on the second.

Brandon caught the heavy padlock with a grunt. He took a closer look at it and saw that symbols were etched crudely into the metal. Thinking they might be important, he pocketed the lock. The motion nearly pulled his pants down, and he hurriedly tightened his belt around his waist to support the extra weight.

Sam managed to pick the second lock within only three minutes. It was still taking too long. He needed two hands to wedge his tools in and open the locks, and the process was significantly slowed since he could barely move the fingers of one arm. Sweat dripped down his forehead and he brushed it away, frustrated. He picked the third and fourth locks without incident.

When he was a few minutes into the final lock, he heard gravel crunch in the driveway. A light shone briefly through the bay window behind them.

Brandon moaned. "He's back," he said, clutching his rifle with shaking hands, "Oh shit he's back."

"Get over here, point your gun at the hallway door, and don't say _anything_," Sam hissed, working feverishly. After a few tense moments the two men heard boots thudding up the wooden porch steps.

The final lock clicked open. Sam wrenched it off and tossed the remaining locks to Brandon so he could stow them in his pack. He took a deep breath and pulled the door open. A wall of darkness fell forward through the gap and covered him. He clenched his teeth and took a step forward, disturbed when his boot splashed softly into liquid. The room smelled like bodies left out to bake in the sun. Several pairs of eyes glinted at him, lit by the lamp behind him. Something growled.

Downstairs, keys thudded onto a table. Notes of an overplayed Black Eyed Peas song drifted up from a portable radio. Thankful for the noise, Sam pulled a shaking Brandon across the threshold and shut the door behind them. "Flashlight," he demanded.

Brandon fumbled around in his pack until he found it. He flipped the switch and instantly wished he hadn't. White eyes glared sightlessly at them from inside tiny cages. Every face was twisted into a decaying mask of fury and desire, and some of the victims were reaching out for them, hungry.

"I like the lights better off," Brandon squeaked, backing up against the door.

"Give that to me," Sam said, taking the flashlight. "Keep your rifle trained on that door. If you hear anything, you tell me. Got it?"

Brandon nodded.

Sam turned away, his eyes searching the mess in front of them. "Dean?" he limped forward through the rows of cages, desperate. "Dean? Come on…"

Brandon didn't know how Sam expected to hear anything over all the growling or see anything in the darkness. He was astonished when Sam turned abruptly and bolted over to the front corner of the room, dropping to his knees in front of a cage.

"Dean," Sam breathed, horrified. His brother was shirtless, wet, and shivering, crammed awkwardly into the small cage. His shoulder was…his shoulder…

Sam pushed the rage back; it wouldn't do him any good right now. He had to get Dean out. He reached in through the bars and gently grabbed his brother's arm.

Dean mumbled gibberish and swung his handcuffed arms feebly toward what held him.

"No," Sam said desperately, grabbing Dean's wrists and holding them still, "Dean, no, it's me. It's Sam," he choked out, heart lurching, "You have to…please, it's _me_."

Dean stilled, mouth open slightly. His eyes were completely white and clouded over; they stared right through him.

Sam could have cried. He bit his lip and tightened his grip on his older brother's wrists, aware that his hand was next to Dean's open mouth. He didn't care. If Dean was already a zombie, it didn't matter if he got infected too. "Dean?" he whimpered.

Dean blinked, hard, as though trying to clear his head. He said something, but it was wordless babble in Sam's ears. Sam swallowed hard and allowed a tear to fall. He was too late. They had taken too long to get here—

Dean grabbed his hand and squeezed, _hard_.

Sam's thoughts faltered and screeched to a halt. Hardly daring to hope, he pressed his face closer to the bars. "Dean?"

Dean squeezed his hand again and held it this time, fiercely.

Sam breathed out heavily and smiled, wiping his tears on his sleeve. "Hey," he whispered, "You scared the shit out of me, bro."

Dean's grip tightened again.

"Sam," Brandon said, beside him.

Sam glanced up, startled. The cages and the dark room pinged back, reminding him of their situation. "I told you to—"

"Stare at the door, I know. It's not doing anything interesting," Brandon said, and held out Sam's lock picking tools, "Here. I would do it, but I don't know how to pick a lock and we should hurry."

Sam nodded and turned his focus back to his brother. "Dean. I have to get you out now," he said, and reluctantly released his brother's hand.

Dean mumbled something incoherent and leaned his head against the bars where Sam's hand had been.

Brandon stared at the older man while his brother picked the lock. He _looked _dead. He sounded like his brain was fried. And his shoulder…his thoughts trailed off as bile rose up in his mouth. He forced it back down as he waited for Sam to finish. He seemed to be having difficulty with the lock. Concerned, Brandon looked closer and saw that Sam's face was paler than before.

"Sam," he said quietly, "Are you…okay?"

"I'm fine."

Brandon rolled his eyes. "Right. Of course Sam the terminator is _fine_. My mistake."

"Just stop talking, Brandon. Watch the door."

"For the _final_ time," Brandon said, exasperated, "The door does not need watched. It isn't moving, and even if the crazy dude barges in, what then? I tell you that he's here? Hellllllo Mr. Obvious. That'll be super helpful."

"You're being distracting," Sam said through gritted teeth, "I know you're nervous but you need to chill."

"How am I supposed to chill? We're trapped in here with a psycho killer and you're shaking so badly you can't even pick the lock," he said. On cue, the lock clicked open defiantly. Brandon glared at it. "Traitor," he muttered.

Sam reached into the cage and wrapped his arms around his brother. He tugged gently to pull him out, relieved when Dean weakly pushed his feet off the cage to help. Once he was out of confinement, Dean tightened his grip on Sam's shirt and buried his face into his brother's chest. Taken aback by Dean's open show of affection, Sam's worry skyrocketed. "It's okay. I've got you now," he whispered.

"Here," Brandon said.

Sam looked up and gratefully took the jacket Brandon handed him. Together, the two men slid it onto Dean and snapped up the front. Sam hoped that it would keep Dean's shoulder from getting filthier. He doubted that it was possible for the infection to get worse than it already looked, but it didn't hurt to take precautions.

"Someone's coming up lower staircase," Brandon hissed, "Ah _hell_, he's coming..."

"You're going to have to carry Dean," Sam said, wrapping his arms protectively around his shivering brother as he looked up at Brandon. "I…I can't do it."

Brandon made a face. "Of course you can't, you've been shot—give him to me."

"Watch the door—"

"I'm watching the damn door," Brandon snapped, "Just hand him over."

"Dean," Sam said, speaking into his ear, "Brandon is going to carry you, alright? He's a friend, he's helping us."

Down a level in the house, the previously steady sound of footsteps morphed into a run on the hardwood floor.

"Shit," Brandon said, reaching for the flashlight and turning it off. "He's coming. He's coming and he'll see the missing locks. Give Dean to me. Do you have your gun?"

"It's in my jeans," Sam grunted back as Nick thundered up the final staircase, "Dean, please, you have to let go—"

"Pry him off! He doesn't know what's going on, he's probably disoriented," Brandon whispered frantically, and then baulked as the full weight of the eldest Winchester was dumped on him. He caught the man under the elbows and managed to remain standing, though he wavered a bit and stepped too close to another cage. Fingers snatched at his leg, and he stamped down on them hard. The creature inside shrieked and let go.

"Who's in there?" Nick roared from outside. There was a click of a rifle being cocked, "I know you're there, there's no use hiding."

**Please Review! I know it's a bit of a cliffhanger, but that seemed like the best place to leave off (sorry!) Motivate me with braaains...uh...feedback. :) **


	15. Mind Control

**Hello! Told you I'd get this chapter up quickly (though the reviews really did make a difference—you're all fantastic). Two quick things: **

**One****…[PLEASE READ THIS] this chapter actually comes as a two-for-one deal. I was reading through the story and realized that I had _forgotten _****to post a previous chapter that I'd written. Ummm…yeah. Apparently it's possible. Don't ask how. So I posted it at the end of original Chapter 9, so if you go there I have directions on the page on how to find the missing portion, and chapter 10 might make more sense. **

**And ****Two****…I am pleasantly surprised at how much you appear to like Brandon. I wasn't originally sure if he was going to live through the fic, but since several of you have been pleading for his life his chances of dying are getting quite slim. See? Reviewing does make a difference! Anyway, I'll be quiet now. Enjoy. **

Sam tugged Brandon's shoulder, maneuvering him over toward the other corner of the room. He clutched his pistol, wishing his other arm wasn't useless so that he could handle a rifle.

"Tell you what," Nick's voice boomed, "If you come out now I'll make it quick. One bullet to the brain. You won't even feel it when I feed your bits to my little friends in there."

"Closet," Sam whispered, shoving him back again. "Hide."

Brandon felt along the wall until he found a doorknob. He opened it and slid inside, closing the door behind him and putting Dean down gently in the corner.

The darkness pounded in from all sides, chocking him with the terrible notion that he was going to die. He was going to die crouched in the closet of an attic packed with cages, and Nick was going to slice, dice, and serve up his corpse at an all-night diner where the customers were at the same rate of decomposition as the food. Chris would never even know what happened.

The last thought terrified him more than anything, and he fumbled to get out his phone. The small screen lit up just enough of the closet for him to make out Dean's frightening translucent eyes. He deflected his gaze back down to the screen and saw that he had missed twelve calls.

_Twelve calls?_

"The hell…?" he breathed, staring at his brother's name on the caller ID. "Why would he—"

The main door slammed open with a clang of metal and wood. Brandon jerked involuntarily and his phone slipped out of his hands and into the liquid puddled at his ankles. He ignored it and clutched his rifle tightly in shaking hands.

Out in the main room, Sam kept his lanky frame hidden down amidst a row of cages. Each breath he took came out in a white puff in the cold attic air as he kept as still as possible, waiting.

Nick swaggered inside, splashing filth all over the front cages and their occupants. "Hello darlings," he sneered, an M-16 held loosely over one shoulder, "Daddy's home."

Two zombies crept inside after Nick and stood rigidly in front of him. Sam looked between the two dead men, sizing them up. It was like Rocky Balboa and Morpheus had stepped out of a movie frame and into the attic. He scowled.

"This children's game of hide-and-seek is a load of bullshit and you know it," Nick said, smirking, "You're nothing but a rat, whoever you are, and I'm going to stomp you out of your pitiful existence." He flicked a hand out nonchalantly and looked between his guards, "Get 'em."

The two men leapt forward and thundered toward Sam. Cover blown, Sam stood and aimed for Nick, but the men blocked his path. Swearing, he altered his aim and pulled the trigger.

Morpheus fell backward, a bullet redecorating his brain. Sam swung his gun a few feet to the right, but before he could take the second shot Rocky pounced, throwing him back against a cage. The gun flew from his fingers and splashed into the slop on the floor a few meters away. Rocky grabbed Sam's throat, dug his fingernails into soft flesh, and lunged down, ready to tear off his face.

Sam's last inch of restraint _snapped_. Eyes aflame, he pulled a long dagger out of his belt and jabbed his attacker twice in the arm in quick succession. When the guy pulled back and swatted at Sam as though he were a pesky insect, Sam plunged the blade deep into his chest and pulled down hard, slicing through his insides like butter with a crunching snap. Blood splattered into Sam's eyes, and he found that only a small part of him cared. He kicked out, lips clenched to avoid accidently swallowing any of the tainted blood, and swung with all his strength.

Rocky's head dropped off like a melon. The body collapsed a moment later, splashing to rest on the floor where it was quickly assaulted by various occupants of nearby cages.

Sam stared. He breathed in gasps, head spinning from fatigue even as the adrenaline raged inside him. It spiked higher when he realized that Nick was clapping.

The older man strode forward, beaming. "Brilliant, Winchester," he crowed, clapping his hands together mockingly, "Brilliant. What a tantalizing show; best I've seen in years! And you're alive. How…_pleasant_ for you."

"Told you," Sam murmured, drops of blood splashed across his face and dripping down his torso, "I'm tough to kill."

"Obviously," Nick said, chuckling. He stopped walking when he was a cage away from Sam and casually shifted his gun to the other shoulder, "You look…well. I'm impressed."

Sam's expression didn't change. He gripped his knife so tightly that the handle was in danger of snapping off. "I'm going to cut you limb from limb."

"No you're _not_." Nick said, grin widening, "Don't treat this like a game, Sam. You may have managed to scrounge together a flush, but I still hold the most important card."

"And what's that?" Sam asked flatly.

Nick paused, gloating. "Dean."

Sam's previously controlled face hardened into a mask of rage. "You _bastard_," he hissed, "Don't you _ever _touch him again."

"But I don't have to. That's the beauty of it," Nick said, practically bouncing with glee on the balls of his feet, "Dean? Be a good little boy and come on out."

Sam stared incredulously. "What?"

"Sssshh," Nick said, holding a finger to his lips, "Listen for the little rats hidden in the little walls."

Sam's mouth went dry.

"_No—Dean, no, what are you—don't—"_

The closet door creaked open and Dean lurched out unsteadily, eyes rolling in Nick's direction.

Sam nearly choked. "Dean…what are you _doing_?"

Brandon stepped out and grabbed for the elder Winchester, catching him by the elbow. "Don't," he hissed, trying to drag him back into the closet. "Dean, _no_."

"_You_!" Nick exclaimed, genuinely surprised. He paused for a moment as they struggled, eyes trained Brandon, and then shook his head and delivered his second command. "Hit him."

Without blinking, Dean slammed his fist into the side of Brandon's head. Brandon dropped, gasping. Dean didn't spare him a glance, just kept limping toward the center of the room. Toward Nick.

"What the hell did you do to him?" Sam demanded, voice rising as he darted over to his brother's side.

"What I've done to the rest of these people," Nick said, gesturing around at all the cages, "Honestly, you need to keep up, Sam. Life moves fast. _Yours_ is nearly over."

Sam reached Dean and planted himself in front of him. He put one hand on his good shoulder and the other on his chest. "Dean, stop," he pleaded.

Dean focused on Sam's face when he spoke. Even though his eyes were white and clouded, Sam saw his brother in there, screaming soundlessly.

Furious, Sam pushed back against his brother's body as it moved unbidden toward the bastard responsible for everything. "Damn it," Sam snarled. He half turned toward Nick. "Leave him alone!"

"You know, Sam," Nick said nastily, "It would be so much easier on poor Dean if you would just _let him die_. He wouldn't have to know anything about monstrosities I plan on ordering him to carry out, and he certainly wouldn't feel any pain in that hunk of road-kill he calls a shoulder. He'd just be a mindless drone like the others. Look at them, Sam—don't they look _happy_?"

"Not happening," Sam snarled, pushing hard against Dean as his brother continued to amble forward. He could feel Dean shaking, fighting against it, and he tightened his grip on his shoulder. "Dean, it's okay. I won't let him force you to do anything. He's not getting you."

"I've _already_ got Dean," Nick said dismissively, leaning against a cage. "You're the one that's threatening my operation, and right now I want you six feet under. I want your body burned beyond any hope of recognition. I want your corpse tossed into the ocean and left to float, bloated and rotten, across white sanded tourist beaches. I want you _dead_, freak."

"Get in line," Sam grunted distractedly, mind elsewhere. They needed to get out _now_, but Brandon was down and all of Sam's energy was focused on preventing Dean from reaching Nick. If only he could get to a gun…

Dean flinched, and Sam realized one of his fingernails was digging into a gash in his side. He shifted his grip. "Sorry," he breathed, his face inches from Dean's as they struggled, "I'm sorry."

"I've figured out how to kill you, Sam," Nick said quietly.

Sam anchored his feet against one of the cages, ignoring the fingernails that raked at him through the bars. "Good for you," he shot back.

"I'm glad you approve," Nick said, and snapped his fingers playfully. "Stop moving, Dean."

Dean stopped his charge mid-step and slumped over, exhausted, into Sam's grip. Caught off-guard by the sudden lack of resistance, Sam nearly fell on his brother, but at the last second he managed to keep his hold on Dean and stayed on his feet. He was left feeling sick and dizzy, and it took all his energy just to keep his balance. He struggled to pull air into his lungs.

Dean's eyes swiveled in Sam's direction as he tightened his fingers in Sam's jacket. He mumbled something, but the syllables didn't string into words.

"Dean," Sam said, shaking his head helplessly, "I can't…you're not making sense."

Dean frowned at him.

"Hey Winchester," Nick called over, grinning at their hopeless exchange, "I have one more thing that I want you to do…and then you can go back in your cage."

Dean tensed and pulled Sam closer. He cleared his throat and mumbled something else, slower this time, but again the words were complete nonsense. Sam realized with dismay that Dean didn't even sound like himself anymore, and he was instantly beyond furious, torn between staying where he was to protect Dean and charging over the cages to bash the brains out of the man responsible for caging his brother like an animal and severing his ability to communicate with him. Sam couldn't stand it; he had never wanted to talk to Dean as badly as he did in that moment.

Nick stepped closer to them, gleefully soaking in Sam's confliction and anger. "Don't worry, Sam. You put up a good fight. I'll look after Dean when you're gone," he said. He turned to the second Winchester, who was clinging to his younger brother as though Sam was the only thing keeping him sane. "Hey Dean..." he said, smirking, "Kill your little brother for me."

**Dun dun duuuun…Review! Thanks. :)**


	16. Kill Your Brother

**Thanks for your continuing interest, and a huge thank you to all who have reviewed! Here's a loooong chapter for you…it didn't want to end, haha. Crazy story has a mind of its own. **

_"Kill your little brother for me."_

Dean inhaled sharply as the command pounded a nail through his consciousness. _Kill your kill your kill your—_He was suddenly all too aware of his close proximity with his brother, of his head on his shoulder and his fingers twisted into his jacket, all too aware that Sam carried a variety of knives on him at all times.

The command jerked at him, twisting his limbs into unwanted action. _Go for his knife knife knife—_

Horrified, he tried to half-push himself away from Sam even as he felt his left hand snatching for the closest knife attached to his brother's belt. The action sent hot pain searing through his injured arm, but it didn't slow him. Blind, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, growling.

Dean employed every ounce of willpower to bring his body to a trembling halt. He held himself there, the point of the knife making an indent in his brother's coat, terrified at the sound coming from his own mouth. _I'm growling at Sam, my god I'm growling at—_

Desperate, he swung his other arm, catching Sam across the jaw and—thankfully—knocking him back a few feet from the knife. He shouted, _Get away from me!_

He could hear Sam breathing heavily, could hear him splash back in the water. "Dean, I can't understand what you're saying," he said, "Please, you're stronger than this, you have to _fight it_."

"Kill him now, you piece of shit," Nick urged loudly, "_Now_."

Dean's training kicked in, and he found himself targeting in on Sam's position; he knew exactly where he was, and every fiber in his being longed to leap over and stab him again and again until he stopped breathing. _No no no no no—_He tried to step back, to put more distance between them. It didn't work. His body didn't want to obey him anymore, and he leapt.

The impact between their bodies ground his bones together; Dean didn't care. He wanted Sam dead, and the small part of him that was still conscious and screaming wasn't strong enough to hold back. He swung the knife down toward where he knew Sam's head would be, relieved when his brother's strong grip arrested the descent and held tight.

"Dean," Sam grunted, "_No_. It's _me_, it's Sam."

Dean tried to yell back that he damn well _knew_ it was Sam, but he couldn't even open his mouth anymore. The muscles wouldn't work for him; his body was on autopilot, and he wasn't even in the driver's seat. He found himself locking in on Sam's voice and lunging, mouth wide, toward his throat.

He clamped down on air—Sam having twisted away—and shrieked, struggling to free his hand that gripped the knife.

"He's gone," Nick said, triumphant.

"No he isn't!" Sam denied forcefully, still trying to force Dean to drop the knife, "He's not, you don't know!"

Dean could feel Sam weakening as the struggle continued. He knew his brother wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer, not against something that didn't tire or react to pain. His hand inched steadily toward Sam's face with the knife, and he tried to force himself to stop, to drop the weapon. He might as well have been trying to move Mount Everest over a foot or two.

Sam delivered a swift kick to his gut—it pushed him back and hurt, but not nearly as much as it should have. Dean knew Sam was holding back. He made a mental note to strangle him for it later, when he wasn't under some voodoo mind control.

"Dean, _please_!" Sam choked. Dean could feel his brother's muscles shaking as they tired.

"Finish it," Nick said. "Kill your brother!"

The command slammed into him, dizzying him. Dean felt his remaining fragment of consciousness chip off and he was sucked down, unable to even contemplate control. He slammed his fist into Sam's chest, satisfied when something snapped. Sam's breath hitched and he doubled over, and Dean felt his brother's hand loosen on the knife. He pulled it out of his grip, then yanked down as hard as he could on Sam's bandaged arm—

Sam screamed.

His voice, contorted with agony, reverberated through Dean's skull and pierced through the wall. Dean reeled back, in control once more.

"Kill him!" Nick screamed, "Goddamn it, do it now!"

Dean fought with everything he had left. The pressure built dramatically until he was sure his head was going to explode. Yellow dots pocketed his vision, obscuring even the collection of vague shapes he had previously been able to make out with his wrecked eyes. _No! _He shrieked, unsure if the words passed through his lips or were only ghosts manifested in his mind,_ I won't! You bastard, you can't make me do that, not Sam, I won't—_

The sharp BLAM of a rifle shattered through the crowded attic space. Eerie silence descended, followed by a terrible moment in which Dean's mind raced—did he have a gun, had he fired it, was Sam…was he…

Nick cried out, stumbled. Dean's head cleared a fraction, the heaviness lifted. A second shot rang out, this time splashing onto the floor in a clear miss. Silence pounded and then someone ran, followed by a second set of footsteps. Dean's head cleared further and he dropped weakly to his knees, gasping for breath. In the back of his mind he heard his brother shout out for someone to stop.

**SNSNSN**

"Brandon! Don't!"

Brandon ignored Sam's warning and pressed forward down the stairs, pursuing Nick with all he had. No way was that bastard getting out, not when he had caused so much irreversible damage to an innocent town. Eyes hardened, he hit the hardwood floors at the bottom and rounded the bend, nearly falling in his waterlogged chucks as he followed the spots of blood and thudding footsteps of the murderous Nick.

He cornered the man in a shabby colonial style bedroom and halted, realizing his mistake. Nick held a pistol aimed at his chest; a small closet full of guns was thrown open at his back. Brandon stumbled, keeping his own gun pointed. They glared at each other around the metal. Brandon tightened his finger on the trigger, fully aware that he could kill Nick with a single shot at this range. One second and it would be over; the man would never hurt anyone again. His finger twitched, squeezed, and twitched again. Shaking, he stared at Nick, aimed at his heart.

Seconds ticked by.

_Shit._

Nick must've seen something in his face, because he laughed and lowered his pistol. "Can't do it, can you kid?" he said, "Guess I got lucky, huh?"

Brandon's lips tightened. "Don't move."

Nick twirled his pistol idly around a finger. "Why? You'll kill me?" he said, relaxing back against the bed stand and smiling at him like they were old friends, "I get it. You're a newbie to this whole psychic thing. No kills yet, no nightmares of headless bodies and blood slicked boots."

Nick's words shot fire through Brandon's spine. He froze, taken aback, but didn't lower the gun. "You…you know about me?"

"You can put the gun down now; face it, it's not like you're actually going to kill me with it—"

"I will! I mean I'm going to…I _can_…" he stuttered, the gun shaking in his grip. "You're dead if you move, okay?"

"Sure, kid. Whatever."

"How the hell do you know about me?" Brandon demanded, "I was…I was careful!"

Nick shrugged. "I take pride in knowing all the nearby freaks. You're simple enough to spot, kiddo. Patterns don't lie, and every time you move to a town, some supernatural nightmare happens nearby…and you mosey on up to the plate and clean it up."

Brandon tried to keep his breathing steady. Nick knew—holy shit, he _knew_. No one was supposed to know his secret. _No one_. He'd tried so hard to cover everything up, hell, his own _brother _didn't even know.

"I feel I owe you an apology," Nick asked, making a show of loading bullets into his pistol. Slowly. "I may have underestimated you. I _never _thought that you'd go and help the Winchesters; they're way out of your league, you know."

"I help people," he said. "They needed help."

Nick rolled his eyes, amused, and snapped the case shut. "And who's going to help _you_?"

**SNSNSN**

Sam's hands hovered inches above his brother's body as he kneeled beside him in the attic. Dean had succumbed to fatigue and blood loss right after Brandon ran out. He continued to wheeze, a high pitched squeak that wasn't bringing in much air. His face was radiating enough heat to replace a small space heater.

Sam couldn't bring himself to touch him. He was scared to check for a pulse, too scared that there wouldn't be anything left to find. He tried not to speculate how high the fever had gotten. Dean needed to be moved somewhere safe, somewhere _clean, _but Sam wasn't sure it was smart to jostle him. Unfortunately, there were other problems to attend to.

_Brandon was going to get himself shot_, Sam thought. Guilt swirled in the air as his breath fogged in dropping temperatures. He tentatively rubbed his hand up and down Dean's torso, trying to awaken some circulation. _You let him go, let him fly out that door like his shoes were aflame, after the psycho that started it all._

_He has a gun…_

_Can he use it?_

Shouting fluttered up through the floorboards, and Sam recognized Brandon's voice. Grimacing, he shifted his weight and pain jabbed through his ribcage—how many ribs had Dean broken? One? Two? He tapped his brother lightly on the cheek. "C'mon sleeping beauty," he said, trying hard not to grab Dean's arms and shake him as hard as he could, "Rise and shine. I'm not leaving you but you need to get up, Brandon's waist deep in fire ants down there."

Nothing.

More shouting exploded downstairs. Louder.

"Dean…Dean _please_," Sam said, desperate.

**SNSNSN**

"_Who's going to help you?"_

The words burned. Brandon's thoughts instantly flew to his brother—his brother who knew _nothing _about any of this. Part of him was satisfied—Chris was safe, he was going to live—and the other part, the smaller, frightened part that was still secretly scared of thunderstorms and occasional small spaces, wanted his brother with him, wanted him there more than anything.

Nick nodded toward the ceiling. "So…do you think Dean's gnawing on Sam yet?" he asked, grinning widely, "I'd put a bet on it, but you're not going to live long enough to collect any potential winnings."

Brandon didn't talk. It was pointless; he was going to die sooner or later, depending on when the bastard shut up and got tired of hearing his own voice. He hoped that his death would at least buy the Winchesters some time to escape. He tried once more to pull the trigger—

No. He couldn't. He saved people, he couldn't kill them. Nick had hit it right on the head with his earlier speculations; he had never killed anyone before, at least anyone that had blood pumping through their veins. Ghosts didn't count.

"You wanna hear a funny story before I blow your brains out?" Nick said suddenly, slamming a wall down on Brandon's turmoil.

"Is it a long story?" Brandon asked hopefully. He tried inching toward the door, preparing himself to make a run for it.

"Maybe," Nick said, "Never told it to no one before. It starts out like this…Once upon a time, I burned your house to the ground."

Brandon halted his lame escape maneuver. "You… _what_?"

Nick chuckled. "You know why I wasn't here when you two assholes broke in? A few hours ago I drove over to Newport Drive and doused your house in gasoline and torch fuel. I thought, well, I'd shot the hell out of Sam, and I had Dean under my control, so I figured what the shit, I'd clean up all the psychic mess in town.

"You should've seen it…the flames reached the fucking _sky_, man, far above the telephone poles. It was spectacular. And then some shriveled half-dressed grandma wearing this ancient flowered robe came charging onto the street with her walker, shrieking bloody murder through denture-less gums and pointing at the fireball. You have strange neighbors, man. It was better than cable."

Brandon listened, but the words seemed unreal. The twelve or so calls from his brother suddenly made terrible sense.

Nick slapped his thigh, "I thought you were inside, a crispy lump of charred jerky hunkered down in a flaming bed. And then I come here, expecting to have a quiet smoke, watch some crap reality show on MTV, and _bam! _You're hiding in the closet, helping the legendary Winchester brothers try to cheat me out of my spoils. That's some crazy shit, huh?"

"Yeah," Brandon said, managing to keep his voice relatively calm. He picked a spot on the ceiling a few inches beside Nick's head and stared captivatingly at it as the man continued his animated description of burning his house. Brandon counted to ten slowly in his head, and then counted backwards from ten twice as slowly. He focused on breathing, which was becoming ridiculously difficult with all the death threats snapping at his heels. He told himself that he was an _accountant, _a normal, boring accountant who didn't have to deal with burning houses, psychic visions, or zombiesrising from their graves. As an accountant, he _certainly _wasn't expected to break into the home of a voodoo practitioner and threaten him with a gun he didn't actually have the balls to kill with, and he certainly wasn't going to get killed in a stranger's bedroom. Accountants didn't get killed, they aged slowly, becoming balder and fatter each year until they died of old age like the woman on the Titanic.

"Hey!" Nick snapped suddenly, "You listening?"

Brandon took one last look at the spot on the ceiling and then lowered his gaze. He smiled at the madman. "No."

Nick fired, catching Brandon in the chest. The accountant—dully recognizing that this was yet another activity that he, as a boring accountant, wasn't supposed to encounter—staggered back against the wall and dropped his rifle. His left hand flew to his chest, to the hot blood pumping up and spilling over onto his shirt. He couldn't feel it yet—shock, probably, Chris was always talking about people in shock—though he assumed that the pain wouldn't stay away long. "You missed," he said, unable to think of much else to say. "Heart's on the other side. Idiot."

Nick shrugged, aimed. "Nah, just didn't want you dying too quickly. I'm a sucker for suffering—"

A second shot boomed.

Brandon held his breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and waited. After a whole lot of nothing happened, he opened his eyes a little and peeked. Nick was hunched over, clutching his hand, gasping soundlessly like a fish out of water. Fingers were scattered in chunks on the floor next to his pistol.

"Brandon."

Brandon opened his eyes a bit more. Sam loomed above him, hardened and furious. Gone was the desperate little brother, the pleading look, the encouraging smile. This man was a bounty hunter, a member of the mafia, Clint Eastwood out to burn the town and massacre all the gangs who so much as _looked _at him wrong. He was terrifying in an 'I'd like two servings of fire and an extra side of brimstone, hold the redemption' kind of way.

Brandon gaped, fighting back the urge to hide.

"Come here," Sam hissed, and tugged at his shirt. Brandon understood what he wanted and, employing way more willpower than he should have needed, managed to crawl out of the bedroom. Blood soaked his clothing, and he fought the urge to vomit or face-plant on the floor. Dean was propped up in the hallway; he looked dead, only breathing.

Sam strode into the room and kicked the gun and stray fingers away from Nick. One punch had him kissing the carpet, and a well-placed stomp on his mutilated hand had him shrieking his lungs hoarse.

Coldly, Sam pressed the barrel of his gun to Nick's temple. "Go to hell," he said.

Nick started to laugh. The sound twisted and fused with his unrelenting shrieks of pain, making him sound like the joker in _Dark Knight_. "Big…big mistake," he choked, voice laced with satisfaction. "Big, big, big, big, big—"

"Shut-up," Sam said darkly, tightening his finger on the trigger.

"You kill me, you kill Dean," Nick said quickly, opening his eyes and peering up triumphantly, "No way you'll figure out how to save him without me, not when he's this far gone."

"I said shut your damn mouth!" Sam spat, "I don't need you for anything!"

"Is dear brother already dead, then?" Brandon prodded, looking at Sam's face. He smirked widely. "Have you checked?"

Sam glared.

Nick shrieked with laughter. "You didn't check—you didn't—you _coward_—

Sam slammed the bunt of his gun into Nick's temple with force that could have felled a tree. It felled Nick instantly, leaving the room eerily void of noise.

Inhaling slowly, Sam scowled venomously at his immobile body. "_Damn it_," he said.

**Review please! Thanks a billion! **


	17. Damages

**Thanks for the comments and reviews everyone! Sorry for the wait but I've been on vacation for a week. It wasn't really planned. But now I'm back...from outer space... :) I know, I'm lame. Just read. **

Sam took one lingering glance of disgust at Nick's crumpled form before dragging his own broken body out into the hallway. Upon inspection, he found that Dean was still mimicking a corpse—_he's not dead, damn it, he'll be okay_—and Brandon was slumped against the wall beside him. His eyes were closed, and blood had begun to soak through his shirt. "Hey," Sam said, snapping his fingers in front of Brandon's face, "No siestas, gunslinger. You stay awake."

Brandon opened his eyes a crack and peered up. He kept a palm pressed against his chest, but the blood seeped through regardless. "I'm up," he said, "Resting my eyes."

"Rest them when you're on vacation," Sam said, "Right now you keep them wide open—don't even blink—and you keep that hand stemming all that blood. You're not dying today."

"I know," Brandon said, smiling thinly. "It's just a flesh wound."

"Funny," Sam said simply, looking into the next room. It was a small bathroom; blood crusted the claw foot tub and splattered up the pineapple pattered shower curtain. He pulled back in disgust. "Have you seen any rope?"

"What?"

"Rope. We have to tie up the bastard," he clarified.

Brandon shrugged. "I don't remember."

Frustrated, Sam's eyes strayed to Dean. His skin was chalk, dark smudges etched under his closed eyes. He was breathing shallowly, but that didn't mean squat. Zombies breathed. Sam wanted to check for a pulse but…what if…? _He can't be dead. Not Dean. He was fighting it, he was… _

Underneath all thoughts, Nick's voice echoed in his head, unbidden: _Coward…coward…coward…coward—_

"Why…why didn't you kill him?" Brandon asked softly.

Sam tore his gaze from Dean. "What?"

"Nick. Why didn't you blast him?"

Sam tightened his grip on the doorknob. "He claims there's a cure. Says he has it."

Brandon shifted his weight weakly, stretching out his legs in front of him. "What do you think?"

"He's telling the truth," Sam said, his face rearranging itself into a ruin of fury and hatred, "He'd better be."

Brandon flinched, looked away. _Time to change the subject… _"Does the bathroom lock from inside?"

Sam's cigarette eyes burned into him.

Brandon shivered. "Don't…don't look at me like that," he said, "I'm not Nick, okay? Save the eyes of damnation for him. What I'm saying…what I mean…ah hell just look at something else, would you? Look out the damn window. You're creeping me out."

"Sorry," Sam muttered. "It's just…Dean…"

Brandon leaned back. "Yeah. I know," He applied more pressure to his wound, relieved that the blood appeared to be nearly stemmed, "Listen. If the door doesn't lock from inside, we can toss the bastard in. Keep him there. He can't kill us if he's unarmed, right?"

Sam didn't say anything.

"Right?" Brandon prodded, voice edged with desperation.

Sam shrugged. He wasn't sure how to keep a voodoo freak like Nick locked up, especially since he controlled all the zombies. On the other hand, Sam recognized that his actions so far were a waste of time; he needed to be helping Dean, not touring the cabin. He checked the lock and found that there wasn't one. Good enough. Without a word he strode across the hall and back into the bedroom. He searched Nick for weapons and pocketed a few blades haphazardly concealed in his clothing. Then, making sure to knock his head hard against the doorframe, Sam dragged Nick out by the ankles. His stump of a hand left a streak of gore on the carpet. Sam dumped the voodooist into the ruined tub and slammed the door to the hellish bathroom. Bloody handprints spotted the white paint around the handle. They appeared to have been made by children. Sam's gut churned.

He limped to Dean's side, feeling helpless in the wake of his brother's situation. Reluctantly, he ran his fingertips gently through his older brother's hair. His fingers came away wet with sweat and blood. He wiped them on his jeans. His hands shook.

"Sam…" Brandon said cautiously.

Sam shot him a glance. He raised his eyebrows and urgently tilted his head in Dean's direction. "Look," he mouthed.

Dean's eyes were open.

Sam nearly choked. His heart pounded faster, pumping him full to the brim with fear. "Dean?"

Slowly, Dean's glazed pupils swiveled toward him. They swept back and forth, never quite focusing on anything. His face was slack, his mouth slightly open.

"Dean?" Sam said again, terrified. He gripped Dean's good arm so tightly that his fingers whitened under the strain. "Hey. It's…it's Sammy. I'm here."

Dean's eyes narrowed slightly. He exhaled, and a soft moan rattled his throat.

Brandon kept his distance. "Sam…is he…?"

"No," Sam shot back, his tight throat constricting the words, "Don't you say that. It's not too late. It's _not._ He's going to be fine."

Brandon nodded vigorously. "Right," he said. He didn't move any closer.

"Dean," Sam said, struggling to keep his voice steady. He grabbed both sides of his brother's face so that his wandering eyes were forced to look at him."You're…you're scaring me. Really _really_ bad. Can you drop the 'I'm dead' act? You're not…you're not fooling anyone. I know you're still…I know you're not…damn it Dean, if you're still in there you give me something, okay? _Anything_. I can't take this."

Dean drew a few more shallow breaths. His eyes danced over objects, unable to focus or still for very long. Finally, Dean's hand lifted and, shaking badly, managed to latch onto Sam's wrist. His skin was like lava to the touch, but his grip was solid.

"Careful," Brandon warned.

Sam ignored him. For the first time in days, he felt the beginnings of hope stir inside him. "Squeeze my arm," he said. He waited.

Nothing happened.

Half a minute ticked by. Brandon watched Sam's face fall. He looked away. "I'm…I'm so sorry," he said.

All at once, Dean's fingers tightened on Sam's wrist, squeezing until it was painful. Sam let out his breath in a whoosh. "Dean?" he whispered.

Dean's grip loosened and then tightened again, though not as painfully this time.

Sam could have cried. Instead, he smiled, feeling the grin rush across his face. "If you can understand me," he said, "Squeeze my wrist five times."

Dean dutifully delivered five consecutive squeezes.

Sam exhaled slowly and allowed his head to fall forward until it rested lightly against Dean's chest. "Oh my god," he said quietly, gripping his brother's arm. "My god. I thought…I thought..."

Dean's chin lowered to rest on Sam's head. His hand released Sam's wrist and slowly snaked around his back where it gripped Sam's jacket comfortingly. The message was obvious. _I'm still here. _

Sam breathed freely. He relaxed against his brother, allowing himself a moment of peace.

Brandon wasn't as easily comforted. After minutes of worrying ticked past, he timidly broke the silence. "Sam…we need to go to a hospital," he said quietly, "We're all hurt bad, and who knows when Nick's gonna wake and cough up the cure."

Sam didn't move from his brother's embrace. "Yeah," he said.

"How's his fever?"

"He's a furnace," Sam said, the tendrils of worry slowly creeping back to their usual place, "But…no hospitals."

"Sam…"

"We _can't_. Dean and I are probably wanted for murder by now in town. If we go there we'll end up on death row."

"Dean needs medical attention. You both do, and I…I don't feel very good. Kinda loopy and lightheaded."

"You need a blood transfusion," Sam said automatically, "And the bullet's still inside you. We need to get it out, stitch you up."

"You're way too calm about this stuff, you know that?" Brandon said, gritting his teeth, "C'mon, get him up."

"No," Sam said, "Even if I thought it was a good idea, none of us are fit to drive. No hospitals."

"Damn it, aren't you _listening_—"

"We need a doctor, Brandon," Sam said, reluctantly lifting himself away from his brother and looking the accountant straight in the eye, "We need a doctor that has equipment and experience and isn't going to rat us out."

Brandon's blood ran cold. "No," he said.

Sam sighed. He shifted so that he still had contact with Dean. "Brandon. We need him."

"No," Brandon repeated, struggling to sit up, "No. Absolutely not. Didn't you hear what I said yesterday? I'm not dragging Chris into this, not this time, not…there are _zombies_ upstairs. We're attempting to keep a psychotic voodoo freak trapped in a tub! You shot off his fingers! And…and…_No_."

"I'm sorry, okay? I don't want him involved either, but we can't go to a hospital and Bobby's not answering his phone. I don't know any other doctors here—"

"God damn it, I said _No_!" he shouted, and gasped when the motion sent pain shooting through his chest. "Shit! Ow," he curled in on himself, loosening his hold on his wound. Blood spurted out anew, unhindered.

Sam leaned forward to apply more pressure to the hole, but stopped en-route. Froze. "Oh no," he said quietly.

Still breathing heavily through the pain, Brandon locked on to Sam's change of tone. His nerves spiked. "What?" he said, "'Oh no?' What do you mean 'oh no?'"

"That's an open wound," Sam said, staring at the hole in Brandon's chest like it had started spewing ectoplasm instead of blood.

"Yeah. So?"

"Your hands are covered in—_don't touch it_!"

Brandon flinched, pulled his hands back from the wound. "What? Why?"

"Your hands are covered in that slop from upstairs and…and you've been supporting Dean, holding him up."

"So?"

"So Dean's _infected_, Brandon. All those people upstairs are infected."

It clicked. Brandon's breathing sped up, and he held his hands as far away from his torso as he could reach. "You mean I'm…" he began, and stopped, "I'm gonna turn out like Dean? Like…like all the soulless people trapped in those cages? Oh hell. Oh no. _Shit_."

"No!" Sam said quickly, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder before he could move and injure himself further, "No, we don't…we don't know that. You're fine. And no one's going to put you in a cage, just…" Sam trailed off, clenching his jaw. He took another look at Brandon's blood drenched shirt. "Hang on," he said.

He slowly stood and made his way back into the bedroom. He came out with a pillowcase, balled it up and tossed it at Brandon. "Keep this on the wound," he said.

"Okay," Brandon said, sounding small, "Okay." He pressed the cloth to the hole, hissing at the wave of pain that shot through his torso. He blinked hard, breathing faster. "Am I going to die?"

Sam's fingers tightened into fists. "You're calling your brother."

"No—"

"Yes. You. Are," Sam said. His voice sliced through the air, beating the individual words into Brandon's brain, "He's your _brother_, damn it. He deserves to know."

"But he…he's _normal_ and I'm…not. I don't want him to know about the visions. And he already thinks I'm dead, my house…Nick burned my house down."

Sam's mind stopped and replayed the sentence. He came up with the initial result and pushed onward. "He did _what?_"

"He said he…when we were…and I missed all those phone calls from Chris…twelve of them…I don't know," Brandon said, leaning his head back against the wall. "I'm so tired."

"Eyes open, don't you dare sleep. Where's your phone?"

"Dropped it upstairs."

"Here," Sam said. He thrust his cell into Brandon's bloody hand, "Call your brother. Now."

**Thanks for reading! Reviews = happiness = updates. :)**


	18. Silenced

**Wow guys, 100 reviews! :D I am so flattered at your continued interest. As a thank you, I'm sending out a hundred zombies to hug each of you...or I'll just give you a new chapter early. Or both! Watch out for the zombies, people! **

Dean wasn't sure which direction was up. He was certain that this was a bad sign, as he couldn't remember anyone but Alice feeling that way as she fell down the rabbit hole.

…Not that he had ever _watched _that movie…ever.

(Alright, fine, he had, but it was Sam's fault, the kid was ten and practically a girl and he had _forced _him to watch the damn thing, after all…)

Dean shook his head slightly, or at least imagined he did. He couldn't feel the floor, and he couldn't feel the wall, but he was willing to wager his lifesavings (meager as they were) that he wasn't floating, though he wouldn't have been surprised by that turn of events at this point in the game. '_Move over Swine Flu, Bird Flu, and West Nile Virus, the Floating Zombies are here to wreak havoc on mankind!'_ The idea was so ludicrous that he wanted to laugh, and he wanted to tell Sam so that Sam could laugh, or at least raise an eyebrow at him.

Except that he couldn't laugh, damn it. He could manage a moan, sure, and he could probably project it with gusto, but that didn't get him a laugh. It didn't get Sam to calm down, either, and that was what hurt the most. Sam was a bundle of fireworks about to explode, and for once in his life Dean didn't have a clue what to do. He couldn't talk. Talking was what he did best. Talking was what calmed Sam down. He could understand every word Sam said, but he couldn't utter any of his own.

It sucked.

**SNSNSN**

After all the things Brandon had experienced so far after teaming up with the Winchesters—a playlist that included zombies trying to eat him, a murderous voodoo bastard burning down his house, and getting shot by the murderous bastard—it stands to reason that something like making a phone call would be as easygoing as, say, watching a movie starring Adam Sandler. You know to expect a romantic comedy void of unexpected plot twists, and the ending is guaranteed to be the epitome of joy squeezed from the teardrops of angels. Anger is defeated, love is found, and it's not creepy at all that a young woman with severe brain damage goes on fifty first dates and ends up married to a man she won't remember in the morning. Waking up confused and pregnant is a glorious occurrence! Halleluiah!

This phone call wasn't like that. It was far, far worse. As Brandon hovered his pointer finger over the little green call light, it mocked him with a thousand jeers. Seconds ticked past, and he finally admitted to himself that he'd rather steal a bear cub from a den of ravenous mother grizzlies than call his brother.

His life was weird.

That said, he wasn't prepared when Sam—sensing that he was never going to follow through with the call—snaked his hand across Brandon's and pressed the dreaded button.

Brandon squeaked and, too late, pulled the phone away from Sam. "What did you—why—"

"Just talk to your brother," Sam said, scrutinizing Dean for any additional injuries, "He's not going to hate you, alright? You need him."

Brandon dropped the phone. It skidded across the hardwood floor and knocked against Sam's knee.

Sam frowned and dropped his hand from Dean's shoulder. "Really? What are you, five?" he said, picking up the phone. He put it to his ear.

"Don't!"

"Hi," Sam said, holding the phone out of Brandon's reach, "Yeah, sorry, I dropped the phone. Look, there's someone here that needs to talk to you," he said, and, without another word, handed the phone to Brandon.

Brandon pressed the phone to his ear. His throat felt swollen; he didn't think he could say anything even if he wanted to.

"_Hello?"_ Chris said. He sounded angry and tired and frustrated.

Brandon didn't say anything. His throat tightened further.

There was a whoosh as Chris exhaled into the phone. _"I don't have time for this_," he said. His voice shook. _"Tonight I lost…I lost…you know what, man? Fuck you. Waste your goddamn time pranking someone else, you bastard."_

The words stung. "Wait!" Brandon ground out, his fingers tightening around the plastic, "Chris, wait. Don't go."

Silence. When Chris spoke again, his voice was barely audible. _"Brandon?"_

"Yeah," Brandon said, wincing as he applied too much pressure to his wound.

"_You…you're…"_

"I wasn't in the house," Brandon interrupted, trying to keep his voice normal and steady despite the pain, "I'm okay."

"_You're okay?" _Chris breathed out, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself of the fact, _"They said you must've been inside, that the smoke must've killed you."_

"It didn't," Brandon reassured him, "I wasn't there. I'm okay."

"_Then why didn't you answer your phone?" _Chris shot back, _"Did you want me to have a heart attack worrying? Where are you?"_

"I wrecked my phone. I'm sorry. It doesn't work," Brandon forced out, "And I'm at…I'm on…" he opened his mouth again but the words caught in his throat. "I…" he said, and stopped. His resolve hardened. "It doesn't matter where I am," he said, "I just called to tell you I'm okay."

"_What the hell is that supposed to mean?" _Chris snapped, sounding more like himself, _"That's a load of shit, man. You tell me where you are, I'm coming to get—"_

"No," Brandon interrupted, "I'm sorry. I can't. I won't drag you down with me, not this time." He ended the call and dropped the phone like it was searing hot.

"Nice try," Sam said gently, in the process of dousing Dean's bite with holy water, "But that's not going to work. It'll only make him more upset. Dean would probably kill me if I pulled a stunt like that on him," he turned to Dean and spoke offhandedly, "You'd kill me, wouldn't you?"

Dean's lips twitched upward slightly and he squeezed Sam's arm _really_, really tightly.

Sam turned back to Brandon. "That's a yes."

Brandon scoffed. "He didn't say anything."

"He didn't need to. We've got ESP."

"That's a load of bull."

The phone rang. Brandon jumped at the sound.

"See?" Sam said.

Brandon glared at him and turned away from the phone. "I'm not answering it," he said desperately, "I don't want him involved."

The ringing stopped for a moment and then started anew, filling the hallway with the cheery tune.

"He's already involved," Sam said pointedly.

When the ringing sounded for the third time, Brandon couldn't stand it any longer. He snatched the phone up and took the call. "Chris?" he whispered.

"_Don't ever do that again," _Chris said, shaking, "_You don't get to do that, not to me. I just spent the last three hours thinking you were dead. Do you know what that feels like?"_

"I'm sorry," Brandon said, cradling the phone, "I just…you don't understand what I'm involved with. I'm trying to protect you."

"_Protect me? No, nuh-uh, _you're_ the one that going to need protection if you don't tell me where the hell you are right now. Got it?" _

Sam caught his gaze and motioned for him to hurry. Brandon looked at Dean. The man's eyes were still open, but it appeared that he was fighting to keep them that way. Sam's attempts to clean his shoulder were about as effective as cleaning the Black Pearl with a toothbrush.

"_Brandon!"_

"I'm here, sorry," he blinked hard. His vision spun a bit and then righted. "Chris, I've…I've been shot."

Seeing as he hadn't had the slightest inkling of warning, Chris didn't take the news very well. _"You what?" _he exploded, _"Where?"_

"You know how all those people have gone missing? Sam and I went after the man responsible, and we got him—"

"_Explain the details later, damn it. Where were you shot?"_

"Chest," Brandon admitted reluctantly, "Right side."

"_Shit," _Chris said, and there was a rustle of objects from the other end as he began gathering items, _"Where are you? No bullshit this time."_

"You'll need to bring all the medical equipment you have at home, and blood," Brandon said, "There are two other guys with me, and they're worse off than I am."

"_For Christ's sake, man, how many times do I have to repeat the question? Are you deaf?" _Chris said, exasperated, _"Where. Are. You? D__ó__nd__e__ freakin' est__á__s?"_

"Uh…I don't…it's on Clover Street, way out of town, but it's before you reach Rita's Pizza Place in Avella. I don't know the house number. Do you know Nick Deloro? He's middle aged, walks with a limp, works down at Mike's Garage on weekends. I'm at his house."

"_He's helping you?"_

"No…he's been killing everyone."

More swearing came through the receiver. _"I don't know where he lives, we're not friends," _he shot back, frustrated.

"It's an old house. Broken windows, ivy growing up the siding. Um…there should be a white van parked out front."

"_It's 3 a.m., how am I supposed to see that?"_ Chris ranted, making more noise as he found other items to pack, _"Can't you just go check the house number?"_

Brandon glanced with dismay at the blood coating his shirt. Any contemplation of going downstairs was laughable. Sam looked half dead himself. Dean couldn't even communicate well, let alone stand. None of them were up to taking a stroll downstairs anytime soon. "I…" he said, "I don't know. It hurts, and I'm still bleeding, and…I think I might pass out if I try to stand. I'd have to go down the stairs to get outside—"

"_Don't," _Chris said, interrupting him, _"Don't move. I'll find it, I swear to god I'll find it. You just hang on."_

**SNSNSN**

Chris did find them, and in record time. It only took him fifteen minutes to locate the house, and he stayed on the phone with Brandon the entire time, keeping him awake with mindless chatter while blowing up the speed limit. Sam appreciated that, as it was tough enough prodding Dean every time his eyes started to drift shut. He didn't want to have to worry about Brandon too.

Brandon finally ended the call when Chris turned in the driveway. He turned to Sam, eyes filled with dread. "He's gonna freak."

Sam nodded. He listened as Chris made his way up the porch steps, through the front door, and to the dining room. The footsteps jerked to a stop.

"He found the ribcage," Brandon said ruefully.

"Yes he did," Sam agreed, scooting closer to his brother. He felt Dean gently squeeze his arm, and he tried to relax. It was difficult. He missed Dean's jokes when they got in tough situations. While it was a huge relief to know that Dean was still alive, the forced silence between them was painful.

The footsteps started up again, quicker. "Brandon?"

Brandon swallowed hard, cleared his throat. "Up here," he called out. His voice was strained.

Seconds later, Chris reached the top of the stairs. His shirt was disheveled and his skin was dusted with ash from the fire. It looked like he hadn't slept at all. "Oh god," he said, catching sight of Brandon. He sprinted forward, a huge bag slung over his shoulder.

"Hey," Brandon said weakly.

Chris heaved the bag down and knelt beside him, staring horrified at the hole in his chest. "Shit, Brandon…" he trailed off. His bloodshot eyes flicked toward his brother's pale face, took in his labored breathing. "Don't worry, I'll fix this, it's not that serious—"

"Chris, listen," Brandon interrupted in a rush, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it when I said I didn't want you at my house earlier. I only did it to get you to leave so that you'd be safe, because I didn't know if I was going to get killed tonight, and I always mess up your life, and I was planning on just running away but then you showed up and I didn't know how else to make you leave but it just made you mad, and if I die today I don't want you mad at me, _please_ don't be mad—"

"Whoa, slow down," Chris interrupted.

"No, no, I don't want to," Brandon continued breathlessly, ignoring the throbbing pain in his chest, "Because as soon as you figure out what's really going on you're going to hate me and you'll never talk to me again."

Chris gaped at him, taken aback, "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

Sam cleared his throat. "See?" he said gently to Brandon.

Chris' head snapped up at his voice, and he finally noticed Sam was in the room. His face darkened. "_You_," he said, pointing, "You're that guy."

Sam tilted his head in response, smiling apologetically. "I'm that guy."

"Sam's on our side," Brandon said quickly before Chris could jump to nasty conclusions, "Nick had his brother trapped in a cage, and I was helping to get him out. He's the reason I'm still alive. If he hadn't shot Nick when he did, I'd have two holes in my chest instead of one."

Chris looked at Sam guardedly. "And Nick…?"

"In the bathroom," Sam clarified, nodding to the door behind them with the bloody handprints, "I knocked him out." He paused, flashed his teeth, "He might be out for a while. I was…really, _really_ pissed when I slugged him."

Chris inhaled sharply as he finally took notice of Dean, of his rotting flesh, white eyes, pieces of bone protruding from his unnaturally pale flesh. "What…" he babbled, unable to think of anything else to say, "What…?"

"He's my brother," Sam said, shifting slightly so he was subtly shielding Dean from view, "Don't worry about him; there's nothing you can do at this stage of infection. Take care of Brandon."

Chris shook his head, horrified, but began rummaging through his pack for the tools he needed. "What happened to him?"

"He's infected," Sam said darkly, "Nick created a virus…it's unique. Deadly."

Chris shook his head, "I've never seen anything like it," he said. He finished laying out some tools on his bag and then leaned toward his brother, hand stretched out, to get a closer look at his bullet wound.

"No!" Brandon shouted, suddenly animated, swatting his arm aside. "Don't touch it!"

"What?" Chris said, his fingers inches from the wound. "Brandon, _calm down_, it's just me. You know I wouldn't hurt you, I'll be careful—"

"Don't talk to me like an invalid," Brandon snapped, "I know it's you. That's why I don't want you touching it!"

Baffled, Chris shook his head. "Why?"

"Because I'm infected!" Brandon burst out, keeping himself pressed against the wall away from his brother. He breathed in slowly and averted his eyes, "I've got what Dean has, and I…I don't want you to end up with it too."

"We don't know he has it for sure," Sam broke in, seeing Chris' expression and trying to act as damage control.

Chris hadn't moved. Fear spread across his face. "You're infected?" he repeated. "Infected with…with what _he _has?" he finished, pointing at Dean.

"We don't know," Sam said again, emphasizing the words to try to stop Chris from panicking. He looked pointedly at Brandon for backup, "_Right_?"

Brandon swallowed hard. "Right," he echoed, squirming, "He's right, we don't know for sure."

Chris still didn't move.

Sam watched Brandon's blood continue to drip onto the floor. He needed to get things moving, and to do so he decided to play his ace. "Chris," Sam said slowly, "I know this is…a lot to take in at once, and we _will_ explain everything. But you need to take care of Brandon now, alright? He's lost a lot of blood."

That did it. The words 'lost a lot of blood' seemed to snap Chris out of a trance. "Alright," he said.

Brandon swallowed hard. "Use gloves—"

"I said _alright_, you little prick. I've got it," he said, and reached for his gloves.

Brandon smiled.

**SNSNSN**

Dean felt bad for Brandon. He had obviously never been shot before, and was trying to act tough while his brother sewed him up. However, either the kid was making a lot of bizarre noises or an entire zoo had somehow gotten into the house. He wished for the latter; it sounded more fun. _Lions, tigers, and bears ripping the flesh off of Nick and devouring him very slowly while he screams in agony, oh my!_

Unfortunately, he knew better. Sam had been giving him a play-by-play throughout the mini-surgery, which he appreciated. (_Anything_ that involved Sam talking to him and keeping him sane was appreciated.) He kept getting comments like _"He's going to fish the bullet out now" _and _"I think Brandon's going to wake Nick if he keeps yelling like that" _and, his personal favorite, _"If clown zombies show up, I'm ditching you," _which, of course, had nothing to do with Brandon and everything to do with making Dean smile.

When Sam wasn't talking, Dean used most of his meager energy levels fighting not to sleep. It was tough, even with Brandon sounding like Chewy attempting to sing karaoke in the Cantina.

Damn he could use a beer.

As Chris desperately tried to calm his brother—"Only three more stitches, man, then you're done,"_ –_Dean groaned and rested his head on Sam's shoulder.

Sam chuckled. "I know," he said quietly, "Imagine if it was this much of a crisis every time one of us got shot. We'd never have time to hunt anything."

Dean grunted and shut his eyes.

"Don't," Sam said, his voice dropping instantly.

Dean scowled. Of course he would use that tone, the little brother _I'm so sad, you have to do what I say _tone. He was probably using the _look_ too, the one that got people to trust everything he said at the drop of a hat. _Well it's not working. These eyes are staying shut. I'm resting them, that's all. Nothing dangerous. Hell, I don't even need eyes, can't see worth shit—_

"Dean…come on," Sam said in the same tone, "Just…just stay awake."

_Resist resist resist resist resist resist—_

"Please?"

_Damn it. _Dean forced his eyes open and bleakly took in the lack of anything but dark shapes and blurs of color. Wonderful.

"Thanks," Sam said, relieved.

Dean twisted his neck a little, trying to get more comfortable on Sam's shoulder. "Bitch," he mumbled, except that it didn't come out a real word.

**Review please! :)**


	19. More Deals

**Wow, you all give such wonderful feedback! Here's another chapter with zombie fun for everyone (except Dean...he's not having much fun). Poor Dean. Enjoy! **

A shaft of moonlight slanted through the dark across a row of tiles. It dusted over a shattered mirror and illuminated a door, under which voices drifted.

An eye opened, raging. The bone tipped nubs of four fingers gripped the side of a porcelain tub.

**SNSNSN**

Sam was a patient guy. He listened to people and empathized with them. He gave relatively decent advice. Overall, it took a lot to make him lose his temper.

Usually.

Today, Sam was ready to throw something through a wall. Or, moreover, _someone._

His patience had worn beyond thin. Currently, it was a single strand of thread that was disintegrating into microscopic particles of dust, and those particles of dust were becoming angry atomic dust bunnies, and those angry atomic dust bunnies were going to beat the living shit out of Chris if he didn't stop asking the same question _over _and _over _and _over _and _over _again.

"Zombies?" Chris said again.

Sam clenched his teeth. For what seemed like the twentieth time, Sam gestured at Dean, who had several bags of ice tucked around his body to keep the fever from frying his brain completely. "Yes," he ground out.

"We're fighting zombies?"

"_Yes_."

"I think you've lost your damn mind," Chris said. "Brandon—"

"We're fighting zombies, bro," Brandon cut in tiredly, hands folded in his lap. "We already explained this. Nick is a voodoo practitioner. He's killing people and controlling their bodies after death. That makes them zombies."

Chris coughed. "You make it sound so easy to believe," he said, "But…zombies?"

Annoyed, Sam waved his arms around Dean again. "Take a look, already," he growled, "Dean's not going to jump up yelling April Fools. It's not even April!"

"He's just sick," Chris said stubbornly.

Sam raised an eyebrow. Laughed. "Sick? You call this _sick_? Sick is getting strep throat. Sick is having the chicken pox in third grade. Sick is getting the flu."

"Well…" Chris floundered, "_Jesus_ man, he's…very, very sick. But that's all. He's not a zombie. I'm a doctor, okay? I believe in factual diseases and factual cures. Zombies aren't factual, they're fiction."

"No," Sam said, tired and in pain and scared about Dean, "They're not. You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"To be honest—"

"Well you're wrong," Sam said darkly, "You've spent your whole weaving a little safety net around you and your brother, thinking that you had everything all figured out. Well wake up. The reality you love so much is nothing but a layer of glass covering an ocean of churning black liquid, and it doesn't take much for things to bubble up through the cracks."

"I thought we were talking about zombies…" Chris said, uncomfortable.

"Those 'fictional' horrors you go to the movies to see," Sam said over him, eyes glinting, "They're all real. Demons, ghosts. Monsters under your bed. Why do you think fairytales were so gruesome and detailed when they were written down centuries ago? They happened to people.

"The media has tried to squeeze monsters down, make them something tangible they can hold and manipulate. A legion of girls believe that vampires are lovesick and misunderstood vegetarians that sparkle in the sunlight. Ghost hunting spoofs teach idiots to walk into the most haunted places they can find and _taunt _the ghosts until they come out of the shadows and scratch them."

"That's just _fiction_."

"Yes. That's just it. _That _is the real fiction. Now, we are sitting in between an attic and a basement lined with cages of the walking dead, and they are anything but fictional. It doesn't matter if you believe in them or not, they'll kill you."

"Okay," Chris said slowly, "So let's leave; let's go into town."

Sam shrugged and grinned the grin of the nearly unhinged, "Can't. Dean and I are wanted for murder."

"Right," Chris said, running a hand over his face, "Of course you are."

"I've killed people in the last few days," Sam said, "But they were all zombies, so it doesn't really count."

"But there's no such thing as zombies," Chris protested, raising his voice.

Sam clamped his mouth shut. _Oh for the love of god…_

**SNSNSN**

Dean cringed as Chris denied—yet again—the existence of zombies. His broken record of an argument—_zombies aren't real!—_ had inched past understandably confused and rounded on blind sighted and annoying a long time ago. How could he not understand? Wasn't he a doctor? Didn't doctors diagnose medical conditions? Why hadn't he made like Dr. House and checked him for Lupus already?

Dean knew what he must look like at this point. He could hear the Darth Vader gasps of breath stumbling through his lips. If anyone was qualified to stand as an example of a zombie, it was him. Chris just wasn't getting it.

Dean silently wished that Sam would just drag the guy upstairs and show him the cages, let a bit of shock factor play a part in the argument, but…

Sam was too damn nice.

All in all, he was proud of his brother. Sam had kept his cool for a pretty long time considering he was still recovering (if you could call killing zombies recovering) from getting shot and hadn't slept in who knows how long. He was also being oddly levelheaded with the fact that his older brother was slowly morphing into a zombie. Hell, Sam was always worrying about him. He worried about him when he needed…

His head spun violently. He paused, swallowed hard.

…when he needed stitches…

A hand reached into his mind and squeezed.

…NO_…_

_…._

_…._

_"Dean? Hey. Lay back down, it's okay, we're just talking. Okay just…just sit back—what are you doing?"_

_…_

_…_

_"Is it happening again?"_

_"Shut up! Dean, come on, listen to my voice, man. Listen to me."_

_"Is what happening?—"_

_"I said shut up! Dean, you have to fight it."_

_….._

_….._

_"What's he doing? Why's he doing that?"_

_"Damn it, Chris, stay back! Get your ass in the—ugh, damn it—get in the bathroom and get a hold of Nick. Punch him if you have to, just make him let go."_

_"Let go of what?"_

_"Of Dean, damn it! Go!"_

_….._

_….._

_"C'mon, Dean, don't—"_

_…._

_…._

_"I can't keep this up much longer, Chris! You have to stop Nick, make him stop!_

_"I don't…I don't…what the fuck do you mean, stop him? What the fuck is going on? Zombies aren't real!"_

**SNSNSN**

Brandon kneeled on the floor, his wound tugging painfully at every movement, as he watched Sam struggle against Dean's attack. Dean was growling like a rabid animal, with spit flying from his gums, and Sam…Sam was losing.

It was going to happen, Brandon thought. Dean was going to tear Sam's throat out. In the back of his mind he could already picture the scene, could hear the ripping sound as Dean pulled back with a chunk of flesh clamped between his stained teeth. He could imagine Sam's shriek morphing into a death rattle as he fought for air, blood splattered up the wall behind them as Dean started _eating_—

Frantic, he looked at Chris. Chris was frozen, panic stricken, against the wall. Apparently none of his emergency medical training was geared toward the zombie apocalypse. Figures.

"Damn it, _help!"_ Sam yelled, his voice contorted as he pushed back against Dean's bulk, trying to keep his older brother's teeth from snapping down on his skin. "I can't…I can't…"

Chris took a step backward, shaking. "Oh my god," he whimpered, "Oh my god. Oh my god."

They were all going to die, Brandon realized. He and Sam and Dean (and Chris, who _he _had brought here, who had nothing to do with any of this)—

Slowly, he gathered his legs underneath him and heaved up, using the wall to help him stand. His vision spotted angrily and his hearing ebbed, but he pushed on, lurching across the hall to the bathroom door. There was a gun on the floor, Sam's .45. He knelt down—his breath coming out in short gasps—and picked it up.

"Brandon_,_" Sam gasped, Dean's teeth snapping inches from his throat. "_Hurry_."

Brandon threw open the door. Nick was crouched in the tub. An endless gush of words spewed from his lips as his ruined hand feverishly stroked up and down the shower curtain, painting it with circles of blood. He didn't acknowledge Brandon's presence.

"Brandon!" Sam shouted.

Brandon imagined Dean waking up to find chunks of Sam's flesh stuck between his teeth and blood all over his hands…

He fired the gun.

The bullet caught Nick in the shoulder and whipped him around, tearing his arm from the shower curtain and sending him tumbling back into the tub.

"Don't move," Brandon said.

"Well shit," Nick spat, laughing as he spotted Brandon, "Didn't think you had the stuff, kid—"

"Get out of there," Sam called out.

Brandon stepped backward from the room, only stopping when his back hit the wall in the hallway. The gun hung loosely from his fingers. His caught Chris staring at him, mouth open. _Told you_, he thought, _I told you you'd hate me_.

Sam disappeared into the bathroom and returned, moments later, dragging Nick behind him. Nick was still laughing madly.

Sam delivered a sharp kick to his ribcage. "Shut your damn mouth!" he raged, and looked back at his brother.

Dean wasn't moving. He didn't look like he was ever going to move again.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…" Nick choked out, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the carpet, "You're deranged if you think I'm just going to hand over an antidote. Why would I do that? We're all having such fun."

"You control Dean again and I'll put one through your brain," Brandon said, clasping the gun in front of him. His hand shook.

Nick met his gaze levelly. "You know what? I think you just might," he said after a moment. He paused. "But it doesn't matter. You're already infected."

"You don't know that," Sam said, angry. "Now where's the antidote?"

Nick's laughter had subsided, and he laid flat on his back on the floor, grinning. "It'll cost you," he said, scratching his chest with his good hand, "Nothing good comes without a price."

"I'm not giving you anything."

"Well how 'bout the kid, then?" Nick continued, un-phased, "I can always use some new blood around the house…and he's a psychic. Psychics come in handy."

"Brandon isn't going anywhere near you after tonight."

"No…not tonight. But soon. That wound is right next to his heart. The infection will kill him within a day or two, and then I own him anyway."

"Guess I should just shoot you then," Brandon said flatly, "Since it doesn't matter."

He shrugged. "Maybe, but you'll still die. You'll probably end up biting your brother—"

"Leave Chris out of this," Brandon snapped, finger tightening on the trigger, "You hear me? You damn well leave him _out_!"

"Alright, everyone cool it!" Sam broke in. _Dean's running out of time. _"Where's the damn antidote Nick? Where?"

"What're you going to give me in exchange?"

Brandon opened his mouth.

"Shut-up Brandon," Sam snapped at him, "Don't you start making deals." He turned to Nick. "You're not getting Brandon."

Nick shrugged. "Fine," he said, "Then you. You're a psychic too, and a better one at that. I want you."

"Too easy," Sam said, stunned to realize he was about to make a compromise with the bastard, "You have to fight for it."

"You're fighting me for the antidote?"

"No," Sam said boldly, "No, you're going to give me the antidote."

"Huh...yes, that does sound desirable," Nick drawled sarcastically, "You are a _master _negotiator."

"I wasn't done," Sam spat, and continued, "You give me the antidote, and then I run off into the woods. You follow me, with a shotgun, and try to hunt me down. No zombies, no supernatural bullshit, just you and me with guns duking it out in the middle of nowhere."

"This is starting to sound better."

"If you catch me, knock me out, or whatever it is you do for kicks, I'm yours. You can come back and continue your zombie franchise."

"And you'd belong to me?"

"Yeah," Sam said darkly, "But if I kill you out there…I win. And you're a dead man."

"Obviously," Nick said, stroking his chin with his good hand, "Hmmm…and I get a full shotgun to kill you with?"

"Three shells."

"Five."

"Four."

"Deal," Nick said.

"Um," Brandon said, looking between them uncertainly, "Maybe we should discuss this first."

"No," Sam said, "It's done."

"Well god damn," Nick said, "I'm actually looking forward to this. Well, let's head to the basement. Unoriginal, I know, but the temperature's cool down there and I can't have my substances heating up. Everything's in unlabeled jars though, so don't get any fool ideas. Half the things are poisons that could melt an elephant; others will make you hallucinate so badly you'll be begging me to kill you."

"I'm not done negotiating," Sam said, "I want one more thing, or no deal. I want to talk to Dean first."

Nick glanced at Dean's body and raised an eyebrow. "While I'm not one to shy from singing my own praises, I'm not that much of a miracle maker. Your brother's pretty much run his course."

"He's not dead."

"No," Nick said, "But his brain function is shit, he can't talk. I can't just wave a magic wand or something, say Avada Kadavra—"

"That's a killing curse," Brandon broke in dangerously, gun aimed. "I've read the books."

"Abra Kadabra, then," Nick amended, waving a hand dismissively, "What do you want, kid? A rabbit pulled out of a hat? Perhaps a balloon twisted into the shape of a giraffe? Voilà, blood sausages for everyone. Anyway Sammy, it can't be done."

"Yeah it can, and don't call me that," Sam said, and tore his gaze from Dean. "You have a bunch of weird voodoo concoctions down there, huh?"

"Of course."

"Any from Africa?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"I want some dream root."

**Leave some reviews. :) (This chapter gave me a bunch of trouble, I hope it turned out alright.)**


	20. The Dream

**Hello everyone! In celebration of me surviving the earthquake yesterday-which consisted of my house making weird noises and a fake plant shaking downstairs (I thought it was the cat, haha)-here is another chapter. Sam and Dean are reunited in a weird dream that resembles the freaky dreams I have. Add some Inception music, shake well. :)**

"I've got a joke," Nick said, "Listen. A doctor, two bleeding men, an almost zombie, and a voodoo priest go down into the basement—"

"And kill the voodoo priest, the end," Sam said dryly.

"That's not funny."

"Tough," Sam said. He was carrying Dean—who was still disconcertingly unresponsive—with the help of Chris, who was still on the verge of a nervous breakdown. They rounded the bend first and stared down the final drop into darkness.

"We're not going down there…?" Chris said, stopping.

Sam reached out and flipped the switch on the wall. A naked bulb flickered to life at the base of the stairs, illuminating a pile of dusty crates and rows of crammed shelves. "Yes we are," he said, "Let's go; take it nice and easy."

Brandon trailed behind Sam, keeping his gun aimed between Nick's shoulder blades. He had reached the level of fatigue where he was either going to pass out or throw up (or, god forbid, _both_). "Doesn't this place have a dumbwaiter or something? We could ride down."

Sam coughed as he got a breath full of dust. He continued down slowly, one foot after the other, "Didn't see one," he said.

"It's not proper horror atmosphere without a haunted dumbwaiter," Brandon muttered, "I feel cheated."

Sam smirked.

"I could build you one, lead it straight to the furnace and cook you alive," Nick said, "I hear psychics are delicious flame roasted. I'd get the meat nice and tender, and there's a fiery barbeque sauce I bought at the Farmers Market this year that I've been meaning to try—"

"Why do you keep calling him that?" Chris griped suddenly, breaking the silence he had held since Brandon had shot Nick in the bathroom.

"Calling him what?"

"Psychic," Chris said, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"That's enough chit-chat," Sam broke in, groaning inwardly, "Let's just focus on getting down the stairs."

"You don't know?" Nick said, stopping his descent and ignoring Sam, "How could you not know?"

Brandon jammed his gun in Nick's back. "Keep moving."

"No, this is important," Nick said, grinning widely.

"I said keep moving!"

"Why? I just want to clear up some misconceptions, shed some light on this psychic issue of yours. Chris, your brother—"

"That's enough," Sam broke in loudly, "Stop it."

"What's wrong with telling Chris that Brandon has visions of people getting killed? Or that he's a supernatural freak? I don't see the problem. Is there a problem? Oh dear, I _do _hope there isn't a problem."

Brandon could have shot the guy right then and there. His mouth opened to deny everything but Nick beat him to it.

"Of course, I don't know why he hasn't _told you_ about all that. Not very brotherly, all these secretive—"

"Nick, I'm warning you," Sam said. _Three more steps to the bottom, only three more steps._

"Did you know he can use a gun?" Nick continued brightly, "He can. It's true. He's shot me before, I can attest to that. Want to see? It's right here. See? It's _alllll bloody! _Who knows how many other people he's killed—"

"I haven't killed anyone," Brandon snapped.

"Says the psycho killer," Nick said. He smiled and continued off key, "You better run run run run run run run away. Oh oh oh oh oh—"

Sam reached the bottom. He shifted Dean's weight so that it was completely resting on Chris's shoulders for a moment. "Hold him," he said, and turned around.

"Psycho killer, Cu'est Que C'est, fa fa fa fa fa fa fa—"

Sam brought his fist back and delivered a heavy blow to Nick's face, knocking the older man back against the steps. "SHUT-UP!" he boomed, projecting his voice in a way that made the dust tumble off the shelves. "Shut-up, shut-up, _shut-up!"_

Nick blinked stupidly for a moment, silenced. "Ow," he said finally, scrunching up his nose, "Ow."

"You keep your mouth _shut_," Sam said, his voice low and piercing, "I am _this close_ to slipping up and ending you."

"I think you knocked a tooth loose, man," Nick complained, pressing a hand over his mouth, "Damn. You did. Oh well, I hear the tooth fairy pays children better these days. Spoiled brats need to pay for their I-Pads and I-Phones and I-Crack."

"Shut-up!" Sam exploded again. He could feel a vein pounding in his temple, could practically taste the blood boiling inside of him, "Stop talking! Every second I spend next to you makes me want to jam a red-hot poker down your damn throat. I fucking loathe the _sight _of you. I want to rip your eyes from your skull, I want to reach through your throat and tear out your vocal cords with my _bare hands_."

"Anger issues, man," Nick said helpfully, "There are therapists for that kind of thing."

Sam hissed and grabbed him by the shoulder—the one with the bullet wound—and heaved him to his feet. "Get me the damn dream root," he said, and tossed him to the floor in front of the stairs. He watched him until he began half-crawling toward the shelves and then turned back to Chris, who had propped Dean up against a fairly clean wall. His expression was unreadable.

Brandon's was pretty clear, on the other hand. He was scared, and Sam didn't think it was the zombies this time. Poor kid.

"One of you help me with this," Sam said, sidestepping the elephant in the room as he made his way toward Nick. The Voodooist had taken a bottle from the back of a shelf. The liquid inside was brown and murky. "Is this it?"

"Dream root," Nick said, handing it to him, "It's trippy shit."

"Right," Sam said dismissively, "Now find the antidote."

"You're never satisfied, are you?"

"Now," Sam barked. He turned to Brandon, who was standing quietly beside him. "Shouldn't there be zombies down here?"

Brandon shrugged.

"They're underneath us," Nick said, gesturing to a trapdoor near the far wall, "I don't like the smell enough to fill my workroom with it."

Sam nodded. He glanced back at Chris. He hadn't moved from the staircase, but he was watching Brandon, his brow scrunched in thought. "Chris," Sam said, walking back over to him when he didn't get a reaction, "C'mon man I need you to focus."

Chris crossed his arms in reaction. "I don't know what's going on."

_Yes you do_. Sam bit back a retort and continued, "Right now, I just need you and Brandon to watch my back," he said, and sighed, "Brandon, over here."

Brandon walked over slowly, like he was making his way to a platform to be hung for treason.

Sam held up the bottle so they could see it. "This is dream root, okay? It allows someone to enter someone else's dream."

"Of course it does," Chris muttered.

Sam plunged on, "I'm going to use it to get into Dean's mind, make sure he's okay. To do that, I'm going to have to sleep, and I need you two to be in charge of things up here until I wake up."

Brandon shrugged. "So we watch Nick," he said despondently.

"Yes," Sam said, glad to have gotten any reaction from him at this point, "That's right. I shouldn't be long."

Chris hesitated, then nodded. "Fine," he said. "Do I at least get a gun too?"

"Can you shoot?"

Chris snorted. "Since I was born."

Sam hesitated for a moment. "Alright," he said, and handed over his pistol, "Don't fire unless it's absolutely necessary. And watch out for zombies."

They both shrugged.

_Oh for crying out loud… _Sam took a deep breath, "And…you know…maybe you should _talk _about _things_ while I'm out."

Silence.

"Okay. Well, I'm going to drink this."

"Might be poison," Brandon said, speaking reluctantly.

"Noted. If it turns out to be a poison and I drop down dead, kill the bastard for me and burn his house."

"Okay," Brandon muttered.

Resisting the urge to shake the two brothers, _hard_, Sam sat down on the floor beside Dean. He ripped a few hairs from his brother's skull and swirled them into the mixture, raised it to his mouth.

"Wait," Chris said, "Wait. You're being stupid."

Sam almost laughed. "What?"

"It might be poison," Chris said, "It might be poison, and you're just gonna drink it anyway? Because that killer told you to do it? That's stupid. What's the point?"

Sam smiled. "I want to talk to my brother," he said, and downed the bottle in a few gulps. He leaned back against the wall, shut his eyes. "Watch Nick," he said, "Talk amongst yourselves."

Silence.

**SNSNSN**

Sam stood in the middle of Nick's dining room.

A body was laid out on the table in front of him, arms spread wide. It was a man. His chest and stomach were a ruin of tissue; ribs had been broken and wrenched upward, intestines were strewn in crisscrossing bunches all over the table. Several organs lay on the carpet, riddled with teeth marks, and blood dripped from the edge onto the carpet with a steady drip, drip, drip.

Only the face remained unmarred.

Sam hissed through his teeth. "Shit," he said.

A CRASH reverberated from a floor above, followed by the swift thuds of running feet. Sam tore his eyes from the carnage and took off, pleased to find that his injuries were gone in the dream world.

Unfortunately, so were the stairs. There didn't seem to be any way to get to the second floor.

Sam ran until he reached a dead end. He skidded to a stop, bracing himself on the window that was mounted on the wall, and breathed. Something wet dripped on his hand, and he opened his eyes to find blood leaking through cracks in the pane. He stepped away just as a slender arm shattered through the depths and swiped at his face.

Sam backed away, putting a few yards between him and the reaching limb, before he turned around. The hallway lengthened dramatically, stretching until there was no end in sight. "Dean!" he called out, striding down the stretch. He turned for a moment and discovered that human shaped entities were contorting their bodies to crawl and scratch their way inside the window.

"Dean!" Sam yelled again, "Dean where are you?"

Nothing.

He continued running, trying to put as much distance between himself and the zombies behind him. Their growling got louder and louder with each step he took. Looking back, he saw that he hadn't moved any further away from the window—but they had gotten closer to him.

"Dean," Sam said again, thinking fast, "I found the body. In the dining room," he said, reaching down for his gun. It wasn't there. Neither were his knives. _This dream sucked._ "It's okay, Dean," he continued, "You're dreaming. I'm not dead, you didn't…you didn't rip me open. It's a dream."

A few zombies detangled themselves from where they had fallen in a heap at the base of the window and began lurching toward him, mouths gaping open. Sam cringed back. "Dean!"

A mahogany door materialized on the wall beside him. Sam reached for the doorknob, but before he could grab it the door opened a crack. A lone green eye stared at him through the gap.

Sam threw the door open and lunged inside, slamming it behind him and locking it. He stepped away from the door, bumping into someone in his path. _Oh yeah._ "Dean," he said, turning around. His brother stood in front of him, his shoulders slumped. Blood coated every inch of his clothing and dried in dark patches on his hands and around his mouth.

Dean looked ready to run.

"This is a dream," Sam said quickly, "You're dreaming."

Dean shook his head fervently, "No," he said, stepping back, "No, you can't be here."

"Nick had some dream root, and I used it."

"No."

"I'm not dead," Sam said, willing his brother to believe it, "The body on the table…it's not me."

"It looks like—"

"I know it looks like me," Sam interrupted, "But it isn't. You're dreaming, Dean. Think about it. You can see me, your eyes are fine, you're _walking_."

Behind them, the door rattled. Sam put his hands on his brother's shoulders and pushed him back gently. The door held. Sam glanced around; they were in an enormous attic lined with wooden cages. Statues of men and women filled the cages, all twisted into horrible positions. "This…is creepy," Sam said, looking back at Dean, "You're creepy, man. Your _mind _is creepy for thinking this stuff up."

Dean shook his head. "I don't understand," he said.

Sam looked back at the door. "You're dreaming," he said. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Dean shuddered. "Eating…eating…" he trailed off, unable to finish, and pointed at Sam.

_Oh hell. _ "You didn't. Brandon shot Nick before…you know…but it didn't happen. Everything's fine. _I'm _fine."

"But I remember," Dean said, rubbing absently at his blood stained mouth. "I…I think. It's all blurry, but I think I…" he trailed off, suddenly looking hopeful. "I'm dreaming?"

"Look at the cages, dude. They're full of statues. _Statues_. You don't think that's a bit strange?"

"Well…yeah. I guess."

"You guess?" Sam said, teasing slightly.

"It's subtle," Dean said, "I mean…I suppose if a train had come barreling through the wall, that would've been more obvious."

"I'm sorry, would you _like _me to drive a train through the wall?"

"Nah," Dean said, "I know you're not Leonardo Dicaprio, and I'm mostly sure you're not his deranged wife, either."

Mostly sure?"

"Eighty percent."

"I'll take that," Sam said, grinning. He clapped Dean on the shoulder and squeezed. "Damn it's good talking to you."

"Tell me about it," Dean said. He smiled back, but his hand anxiously picked at the layer of dried blood around his mouth. "It sucks being stuck in my head…" he paused and then plunged on, forcing his tone to be lighter, "Especially with that doctor wannabe making stupid comments over and _over_ and over again."

"Chris," Sam said, nodding, "He's not…handling things well. For a few minutes I seriously considered dragging him upstairs and showing him the cages. You know, as shock factor."

"That's what I _wanted _you to do."

"I figured you would," Sam said, "That's why I was considering it, but then Nick woke up and…I forgot about it."

"Because I started trying to eat you?"

Sam made a face. "Yeah," he said lightly, refusing to let him start brooding, "You know, if you were hungry, you could've just said so."

"I could have said so?" Dean shot back, following his brother's lead, "I can't talk, you idiot!"

"Yeah, well…you could have grunted a bit."

"You suck," Dean said, watching his brother laugh, "Maybe I should have just eaten Chris's arm, that would have driven the 'zombies are real' point home quicker than your pansy-assed psychiatrist routine."

"I do not have a pansy-assed psychiatrist routine."

"Gimme a break Sammy, you were ranting on about the American movie system and black pits of symbolical water."

"Symbolical water? Symbolical of what?"

"How the hell should I know? Your metaphors suck."

"I didn't see you coming up with any."

"I can't talk!"

"Could've grunted—"

Dean tackled him to the ground.

Still laughing, Sam squirmed against his brother's choke hold, managing to pull himself up and slam Dean back against one of the cages. "Geez," he gasped, "Your time of the month or something?"

"You're the damn girl," Dean shot back, twisting Sam's arm behind his back, "I've been trapped listening to your annoying voice since you found me in that cage. You had that coming."

"For being awesome?"

"Shut-up," Dean said, grinning as he released Sam's arm. He leaned back against the cage next to his brother. The pounding had escalated on the door, and was now loud enough to shake the frame. He wasn't worried. It was only a dream, after all. "So," he said, "You got some dream root?"

"Yep," Sam said.

"And the voodoo freak's got a cure for me?"

"Says he has one," Sam said, trying to ignore the wooden face peering at him through the bars behind his back, "Better have one."

"He won't just hand it over, even if he has it," Dean said, turning to Sam, "He'll want something."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe," he said, watching the door. "Don't worry."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, ran a hand over his face. "Sam?"

"Mmm?"

"Tell me you haven't done something stupid."

"I haven't done something stupid."

Not amused, Dean opened his eyes. "Sam."

"I'm serious," Sam said, pivoting his gaze from the vibrating door to his brother, "I've got this, Dean. I've got the bastard right where I want him."

"That sounds ominous."

Sam shrugged. "I guess."

One of the zombies managed to pound a fist through the door. The wood splintered and cracked.

Dean looked around, angry. "Why isn't there another door?"

"It's _your_ dream. You made a door before."

"I don't know how I did that, I was freaking out," he snapped, "Now tell me what the hell you did before we get eaten."

"We don't have to get eaten, you just have to wake up," Sam said gently, avoiding the issue.

"I don't…" Dean said. He swallowed hard, "I don't _want _to wake up, Sam. I hate it. I'm blind. I can't move and I can't talk."

Sam winced. He bumped his shoulder against Dean's. "I'll fix it."

"That's what I'm worried about," Dean said, "Why is he so willingly giving you the antidote, Sam?"

"I shot off four of his fingers."

Thrown off guard, Dean shot him an exasperated look. "Don't change the damn subject."

"I'm not. I'm telling you why _I _set it up like I did."

"Set up _what_?"

"He wasn't going to hand it over, Dean. He wanted Brandon as a pet, but that wasn't happening so I had to improvise."

The walking dead had managed to clear most of the door. They were gnawing on the wood and clawing at each other, each of them simultaneously trying to reach the brothers.

"Might want to hurry it up," Dean said, "Cause I don't care if they start eating us, I'm not waking till you tell me."

"Remember the Benders?" Sam said directly, "It's like that, except we'll both be hunting each other down in the forest."

A few zombies stumbled across the threshold.

Dean wasn't ready to wake up. "You're injured!" he said angrily.

"Yeah. But so is he," Sam said, eying the zombies striding toward them, "Dean—"

"Don't do it," Dean begged, climbing to his feet as Sam pulled him to the far side of the room, "Don't."

"I have to," Sam said.

"It's not worth the chance! I might be too far gone anyway."

"You're _not_," Sam said firmly, "Besides, Brandon's infected too."

The ground started shaking. Statues in the cages began writing and seizing, and blood spurted from holes in their wooden flesh. All at once they turned toward Sam and Dean, eyes glowing.

Dean woke up.

**Review please! Thanks. :) **


	21. Doctor's Visit

**Hello again! Thanks a billion brains for the reviews, every one of them makes my day. :) Annnnnd…here's the next chapter! (Oh, and I mention a certain drug as the cure. I didn't make it up, it really exists.) Enjoy. **

The awkward silence stretched across the basement. It filled every dusty nook and shelf and nestled on every spider webbed beam like a grinning cat.

Sam had gone silent a few minutes ago. He was breathing evenly, his head buried in Dean's good shoulder.

Chris was staring at Brandon.

Brandon knew this, and had resigned himself to stare, mesmerized, at the ceiling. (Such wonderfully dusty wooden beams. Such stunning architecture. _Stop looking at me, damn it! Stop. Looking._)

He was currently counting backward from one-hundred in his mind. When he was done with that, he planned on doing the same thing in Spanish, and then he imagined that he might count in tens until he reached a million, order the names of all the stars he knew in alphabetical order, and then sing a random Aerosmith song silently, adding in some air-guitar when needed. When he had finished, then—_perhaps_—he would contemplate _contemplating_ trying to explain this mess to his brother.

It was hot. Beads of sweat had collected at his shoulder blades and soaked through his cotton shirt. Brandon rolled his sleeves a bit.

"You're sweating," Nick said.

Brandon abandoned his avoidance plan and glared at the older man. He had climbed up onto a crate in order to reach some bottles on the top shelf. "So? It's hot."

"Noooo," Nick said. He picked up one of the bottles and took a sip, made a face. He dropped the bottle, and it hit the floor and spewed glass shards. "It's air conditioned down here, kid. It has to be cause of all my lovelies. The liquids don't do well when they're too hot, and then freeze when they get too cold. It's a healthy 75 degrees."

Brandon rolled his eyes. "I suppose your _lovelies _are in trouble then," he said, "It's an oven down here."

"Fever," Nick said.

"What?"

"One of the first signs of it."

"It…?" Brandon said, and trailed off, teeth clenched as it clicked. _Oh. _"I don't have a fever."

"Sure you don't. Your wound is just really close to your heart, which is pumping blood to the rest of your body, which is just becoming a _zombie_."

"I'm not becoming a zombie!"

Nick laughed, throwing a few more bottles to the floor. The contents made a sizzling sound as they smashed open and mixed with the others.

Brandon took a step back from the growing puddle. The mixture was collecting over the drain, but it seemed to be clogged. A bead of sweat dripped from his hairline down his cheek. He reached up to wipe it away just as something grabbed his shoulder. He panicked. "Don't—"

"It's _me_, you idiot," Chris said sternly, tightening his grip.

Brandon briefly wished it had been zombies.

"Come here," Chris said, tugging him back over to the corner. There was another crack as Nick dropped another vial.

Brandon flinched back as Chris's hand touched his forehead. "What're you doing?"

"Stop moving," he said, grabbing Brandon's head with his other hand so that he couldn't move. He hissed through his teeth. "You're hot."

"Thanks," Brandon said, without thinking.

Chris's hands stilled.

Brandon felt sick at his slip of normality. It was such a routine thing to say. He was pretty sure the exchange had happened sometime before, possibly on a poker night. He would have said it with a grin and a swig of beer, and Chris would have punched him in the arm and reminded him that that was _not _what he meant, loser, and when was the last time he had even had a date, anyway? And Brandon would tell him about the smoking hot redhead he had met at the bar just last weekend, and about all her smoking hot brunette friends—

Brandon's thoughts ground to a halt when he realized Chris still hadn't spoken. "Sorry. Slipped out," he said. There was a pause and he suddenly found himself pinned up against the wall.

"Look at me," Chris demanded, hands nearly cutting off the circulation to Brandon's arms.

Brandon did look at him then, more out of surprise than anything else. While he had expected to see rejection, all he saw in his brother's gaze was annoyance and worry and…fear? Fear of what?

"You have a fever," Chris said. His voice was tight.

"So it's not hot down here?"

"No. It's…it's cold, actually."

Well. That was it then. He smirked, badly. "Menopause?" he said, swiveling his eyes back to the floor.

Chris managed to tighten his grip. "Stop doing that!"

"Doing what?"

"You know!"

"No I—"

"Stop acting like I'm going to yell at you."

"You _are _yelling at me—"

"No. _This_, this isn't yelling. This is normal."

"Like you normally yell at me?"

"Of course I normally yell at you; you're an idiot, Brandon. You think driving the car down a hill in the dark without headlights on is a good idea!"

"Hey, I only did that once."

"Twice—"

"The second time was a dare, and it's not my fault the deer had to walk out on the road just then."

"You totaled the car!"

"It was on its last leg anyway—"

"Stop it! Just…stop it, okay? You're missing the point. I'm not going to start yelling at you, or…or run out. _Yes_, I'm freaked, and confused, and I don't know what's up with you or what the hell is going on, but you seem to have gotten it in your head that I hate you—STOP MOVING!"

"What?" Brandon asked weakly.

"Not you, _him_," Chris said, his gun drawn and pointed at Nick, who had been creeping toward the stairs.

Nick eyed the gun distastefully. "Damn. You two were such a good distraction."

"Find the potion."

"It's an _antidote_—"

"Find the damn _antidote_, then, you piece of shit!"

"Yes, _your_ _majesty_," Nick said graciously, bowing. "Your kingship, mighty Caesar, oh majestic one, Princess Buttercup…"

His words droned on. Chris shoved his gun through his belt just so he wouldn't be driven to shoot the man. He watched him shove the bottles around on shelves for a few moments, and then turned back to Brandon. "I do _not _hate you," he said, over emphasizing the words. "You got that?"

Brandon breathed out heavily. "You don't?"

"When I thought you died…in the fire…" he said, and swallowed hard, unable to finish. "The last conversation we had was an argument. A stupid argument over a guy I didn't even know. And now you're alive, and you have this whole secret life I know _nothing _about."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Chris said, "I'm just glad you're alive."

"Awwwww…" Nick crooned, from the other corner of the room, "You two! I'm gonna start crying over here."

"Shut up!" Chris and Brandon shouted.

"_And IiiiiiIIIII will all-ways love yoOOOOoooouuUu."_

"Has he found the antidote yet?" Brandon said over Nick's obnoxious singing.

"No."

"Can't kill him then," he said

"Nope."

Brandon nodded. His head spun. Wincing, he ran a hand over his forehead. He _was _hot. And shaky. Shit.

Chris noticed. "You're going to be okay," he said. Paused. "Right?"

"Yeah," Brandon said, looking away from his brother's desperation. _Maybe. _

"You better be…you owe me one hell of an explanation for everything once we get out of this."

**SNSNSN**

The dream collapsed.

Sam bolted upright; shadows of zombies receded to the corners of his mind and were replaced with rows of shelves, dim lighting and a dying older brother. Groaning, he reached up and wiped the cobwebs from his eyes.

Dean stiffened beside him.

"Sam?"

Sam looked. Brandon stood in front of him. "You okay?"

While debating whether to grace that comment with an answer, Sam assessed Dean's condition. His eyes were half open, with white irises peeking through. His body trembled. Breathing was all but nonexistent.

"Sam?" Brandon said again.

The younger man stood before him, arm extended. Sam hesitated, then gripped his hand and allowed Brandon to help him to his feet. He frowned. "You—"

"I know," Brandon said, "Fever. It's not…it's not bad."

Sam felt all four bullet wounds then; he felt them throbbing as one almighty stab. He was tired, and he felt old. "Nick. Now."

Nick appeared beside him, teeth gleaming in the smirk that Sam hated. "Winchester," he said, "Nice of you to wake."

Chris had his gun aimed at the back of his head.

Sam eyed the vials of clear liquid clenched in Nick's fist. "Is that it?"

Nick held one up to the meager light. "Mmm…delicious," he said, twisting it, "Science has its perks."

"I thought you made everything," Sam said distrustfully, "Voodoo potions and such."

"Nope, not this lovely serum," he said, "Got this from Todd Rider. Nice man, brilliant scientist, but fucking stupid when it comes to choosing lovers. All it took was a pretty brainwashed girl with exceptionally perky boobs and long dark hair. He took her into his lab. Into. His. Lab. I mean, does it get any easier?"

"What is it?" Sam asked, still watching the vial.

He shrugged. "It's an experimental drug."

"What?" Sam said angrily.

"It's called DRACO...don't know what it stands for. Don't care. What I know is that it's already killed fifteen viruses in tests on lab rats. It's supposed to be the new cure for everything, including epidemics."

"Have you tried it?"

"Haven't been bit," Nick said, oozing with confidence, "Unlike you guys, I mind control the hell out of those freaks. They do what I tell them. I only picked up this lovely as a bit of insurance."

"You better pray it works," Sam said, holding out his hand.

Nick handed him all five vials. His skin was rough. "Have to say, it's most effective in the _early_ stages of infection."

"It _will_ work," Sam said forcefully.

"Experimental," Nick prodded gleefully.

"Do you want me to shoot you?"

"No, _Sammy_, I'm going to shoot _you_, remember?"

Sam remembered. "Not likely," he said. "Now where are your syringes?"

"Which disease would you like?" Nick said playfully, "I've got a box of used—"

Chris punched him in the head. The connection made a hollow thunking sound.

Nick stumbled forward. "Oohohoh, Christopher Robin, that's not what friends do."

"Shut it," Chris said, lowering his gun. He walked to his bag, started rummaging through it, "I've got a few."

"Good," Sam said, reaching his hand out.

"I'll do it," Chris said. "I'm the doctor."

"Gloves…"

Chris glanced at Brandon. Grinned. "You and your damn gloves."

Brandon shrugged, watching until Chris dutifully pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

Sam looked between the two for a moment. The tension was still there, but it was buried and wasn't threatening to explode anymore; they must've talked. He thanked god for small mercies and handed Chris the vials.

Chris pulled the cap off the first syringe and tossed the plastic piece to the floor. He plunged the needle into the first vial and held it upside down, ready. "Dose?"

Nick shrugged. "What? It's been used on _rats_. I don't know."

Exasperated, Chris raised his eyebrows. "You can't seriously expect me to fabricate a dosage. That could be fatal in itself."

Nick's eyes lit up. "Tick tick tick tick…"

Chris looked to Sam for help.

Sam saw the uncertainty in his expression and bit his lip. He didn't need these kinds of complications now. "I don't know," he said, "Just…pretend it's a flu vaccine or something. Can't you estimate?"

Grumbling, Chris turned his attention back to the syringe. He pulled back the plunger, pulling a dose into the barrel. "Is that…does that work?"

"That's fine," Brandon said, trying to give him some kind of assurance.

Chris glared at him. "You don't know!"

"Well neither does he," Brandon said defensively. "Just…do it already. This gives us a better chance than not taking it at all."

Chris's brow twitched. He thought for a moment, then pulled the needle from the vial and squirted the air out. "Here," he said, holding the syringe out to Brandon, "Hold this. Don't touch the needle."

"Got it. Not touching the needle," he said, holding it away from himself.

As Chris filled the second syringe, Sam crouched beside Dean. He tentatively ran his fingers up and down his good arm, careful not to use too much pressure. "Dean?"

Dean coughed. His expressionless eyes rolled to Sam's vicinity and he grunted something.

"Yeah, we got the antidote," Sam said, trying not to concentrate on the temperature of his brother's skin, "It'll work. It will. You'll be fine in no time."

Chris crouched beside Sam, syringe ready. He looked to him for conformation.

Sam nodded.

"Okay Dean," Chris said, leaning in toward Dean's arm. He cleaned the area with a cotton swab and got the needle ready, "You know the drill. Small pinch. Probably won't even feel it over everything else, tough guy."

Sam kept his grip on Dean's arm as Chris plunged the drug into his brother's system. Chris had been right, Dean didn't even flinch. Sam wasn't sure he felt good about that, though.

A single drop of blood worked its way to the surface; Chris took another cotton ball and held it to the stick. "All done," he said to Sam, "Here, just keep pressure on it for a minute."

Sam nodded and took over, watching Chris stand and walk to Brandon.

Brandon grinned. "Alright doctor," he said, trying to grin, "Do your worst."

Chris shook his head. "Not funny."

"Just make it quick, I hate shots."

"I know you do," Chris said, cleaning the area, "Cried like a baby when you had to get a tetanus shot."

"Did not."

"Did too," Chris said, leaning in.

"Did—ouch! Damnit, man, give me warning!"

"I'm standing here holding the syringe, Brand. That's warning."

"Well your warnings suck," Brandon said sulkily. He shivered.

Nick walked to Sam. He treaded slowly, dragging his feet. His hand was still bleeding; it left splotches of red in dust on the floor. "Sammy."

Sam glared. "_Sam_," he said testily, "It's _Sam_."

"I know," he said, tilting his head to the side, "You're Sammy. You're _Dean's _Sammy, soon to become _my _Sammy. My Sammy will do whatever I want him to do. Sweet little Sammy."

Sam watched his brother's breathing hitch. He wondered how much Dean understood of what was happening. "You haven't won yet," he said.

"You and me, in the forest," Nick said, suddenly forceful, "I delivered. I gave you the vials, and now it's time for you to do the same."

Dean's short breaths sped up. His left hand reached for Sam's arm, tugged weakly at his shirt. Sam frowned, trying to block out Dean's wheezing gasps as he recognized that, for better or worse, Dean understood most everything that was going on. That would make this harder. "I know," he said, "And I'm keeping up my end."

Dean growled deep in his throat. It was a sound that Dean had made before, usually when Sam was about to do something he didn't approve of, and Sam was unsettled by how normal it sounded. "Chris," he called out, "Get Nick a shotgun. Four shells. Don't give it to him yet, wait till I'm out of here."

Chris stood there, conflicted, but finally acquiesced. "Hope you know what you're doing," he muttered, loading the weapon.

Dean's grip had become an iron shackle around Sam's wrist.

"Dean," Sam said, turning his full attention to his distraught brother, "_Trust_ me."

Dean said something then, distorted and unintelligible, but _angry. _The anger was the clearest, piercing through the nonsense words.

"I'm not going to apologize," Sam said, "Because I'm _not_ sorry. We needed that drug, and we got it. Now I'm going to leave for a bit, and I need you to stay alive for me and get better, because I'm going to kick Nick's ass, and I'm going to enjoy it _far _too much, and I need you to be waiting for me when I come back. Got it?"

Dean didn't move.

Sam waited for a moment, tense. Finally, Dean let out his breath slowly and released his wrist. Sam smiled. "Thanks," he said, and leaned closer, "And Dean…I'll be back," he said, in his best Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation. He was pleased to see Dean's lips turn up slightly at the corners.

He stood up then, slowly, and pushed away all thoughts of pain and sleep. "Gun," he said.

Brandon handed him a shotgun. Sam checked it—four bullets. Satisfied, he stood in front of Nick, waiting. "Well?"

Nick nodded toward the door. "Go," he said, "You get a five minute head start, Sammy dear."

Sam nodded, and made his way up the stairs and into the morning air without glancing back.

**Please Review!**


	22. Hunting  Part 1

**Thanks again for reading and reviewing! Enjoy. **

The woods were dark and deep. A faint orange glow pierced through gaps in the trees and shadowed Sam with just enough light that he didn't feel blind as he climbed up a slight embankment, grabbing roots and trunks in an effort to stay upright on the muddy soil.

He needed to find a place.

Not a hiding place. He was in no shape to kneel for hours and wait for Nick to happen upon him. No, this game needed to end quickly and efficiently. Dean and Brandon both needed a hospital, and that meant driving a good many miles to a distant town with clueless citizens and good medical care. Chris could handle them while they were at the cabin, but Sam would breathe easier when Dean was in a clean hospital bed.

He checked his watch. It had been three minutes. Scanning the area, he noticed an ancient Oak surrounded by ferns and other foliage. He carefully stooped beside the tree, eying the width of the trunk. It could easily hide him from view, and the ferns would further camouflage his position, but it was close enough to the cabin that it wouldn't take long for Nick to find him.

Sam leaned against the bark and closed his eyes tight. He needed to clear his head. A bird twittered away in the branches, announcing the approaching dawn. Eyes set, he pulled his rifle out, checked the shells. Four shots.

**SNSNSN**

Dean's skin was going numb. It had to be the medicine, he figured, since he had been able to feel his wound panging angrily just a few minutes ago. It wasn't a bad change, actually.

_Hopefully_ it wasn't bad. He really needed his guardian angel or (hell, why not) _fairy godmother _to just fly over and cut him a damned break already. It wasn't like he didn't have enough to worry about, what with his little brother (riddled with bullet wounds, mind you) waltzing around in the woods (_alone_) waiting for a crazed psychopath to hunt him down.

It was maddening, really. You'd think he'd be used to it, since this happened every time. Every. _Time_. Why oh _why _did everything that drew breath desire to hunt Sam? Was there a 'Sam Winchester Must Die' Facebook group that he just didn't know about? Did a bunch of conniving assholes get together on weekends for tea and plot ways to kill his brother whilst exchanging recipes for veggie trays and fruit salads?

A bead of sweat dribbled from his hairline down to his neck. He felt awful, like he had been lounging around in the sewers for a week, and…something else. Something else was different.

He concentrated for a moment until it came to him in a rush of clarity. He couldn't hear anything anymore. Okay. That was okay. No reason for alarm. Maybe _everyone _had decided to play the quiet game…or they had all left him alone for a moment…

Or something was wrong. Or _right_? It was an experimental drug, so no open disclaimers, no warnings or guarantees…

Sam needed to hurry up.

**SNSNSN**

"Four minutes and fifty-six, four minutes and fifty-seven, four minutes and fifty-eight, four minutes and fifty-nine…FIVE MINUTES!" Nick boomed, jerking up from his position at the wall, "Ready or not, here I come!" He whirled and extended his good arm to where Chris stood, gun pressed to his skull. "Shotgun."

Scowling, Chris tossed him the gun. "Get out."

Nick shrieked with laughter and stumbled up the stairs and out of sight.

Chris stood at the base, hands clenched. "We can't do this," he said finally, staring up, "I can't just wait here."

Silence.

"Brandon?" Chris said, turning. He froze; his brother was leaning heavily against one of the shelves, gripping the wood so hard his hands were whitening under the strain. He was shaking.

Brandon gave him a lopsided smile. "Sam's gonna…he's gonna slice him up," he said, "No…problem."

"What's wrong?" Chris said, ignoring him as he focused on his changed appearance. He strode across the room, "What's wrong with you?"

Brandon drew in a labored breath. "I'm good," he said, and coughed.

"No. You're not, you're…you're worse. Come here. "

Brandon allowed his brother to lead him to the only chair in the basement. He would have fallen onto it, if not for Chris's assistance. "Maybe…this is supposed to happen?" Brandon said, leaning forward in the chair and cupping his face in his palms. "Like it's purging the infection or something?"

Chris kept a hand on his brother's shoulder. He could feel the fever, could feel the tremors raking through his body. "I just gave you some random drug," he said, hysteria threatening to bubble up at the realization, "Shit. I mean…oh god. Oh god, what the hell did I do?"

"Chris, _no_, it's fine—"

"I just injected you with something a _murderer _gave us. That's not fine, that's insane!" Chris said, flipping his brother's wrist over and checking his pulse. "It's too fast," he said finally. "Why is that happening?"

"No, 's okay. Really. Prob'ly just tired. I mean, I did lose a lot'a blood and…" he paused.

"And?" Chris prodded, too focused on his pulse to see his brother's change in expression, "And what?"

"Ohhhh…" Brandon said, fear streaked through his voice as a new set of tremors raked through his mind. He clutched his head tighter, "I know what's wrong," he whimpered, "Not now, not now."

Chris stared as his brother began shaking harder. "What—"

Brandon grabbed a fist full of Chris's shirt in a futile effort to protect himself from what he knew was coming. "_Help_," he gasped, distantly feeling Chris grab onto his shoulders, "Vision…"

The pounding in his head reached a crescendo. He slipped away from consciousness, falling lifelessly against his brother, who cried out—

…

_A bloody knife plunged down right at his face. _

_Still disoriented, Brandon brought his arms up as a shield. Even as he heard the sickening squelch he was kicking out, catching his attacker off-guard and tossing him back a few feet. A rifle lay strewn across the moss a few feet from him, and he crawled, a knife still embedded in his palm—_

"_Kill him! Killhimkillhimkillhim!" _

_Fingers twisted into the back of his shirt and dug into his skin, trying to push him down into the dirt. Frantic, he coughed and kicked out at the things holding him back. Something took a bite out of his shoulder like it was an apple. _

_Agony surged through his body. The first bite was followed by a second, a third. "No!" he stretched his arm as far as it could reach, bloody fingers scrabbling in the dirt for the weapon. Someone was laughing in wild screeches, leaping around him with glee. His head was brutally twisted to the side as something ripped a chunk of flesh from his neck. As his vision dimmed, the angle of his body allowed him a glimpse of what he was dealing with, who was doing the killing—_

_His breath caught as he recognized the man and, in turn, realized who the victim must be. A dead woman leapt down beside his face, snarling through broken teeth, and Brandon wished for perhaps the billionth time that he could see these visions from some other perspective than the victim. It was bad enough that he had to see people die; did he really have to feel it too? He feebly struggled with her, and her hair, wild and unkempt, dragged upon the ground as she lunged toward his face, blood dripping from her mouth—_

…

"Brandon!"

Brandon arched his back as he drew a wild breath. He woke abruptly, gasping like a fish, feeling drained and unsettled and in _pain._ His face was buried deep against something, something soft, and as he continued trying to get air a pair of hands unwrapped themselves from around his back and tugged gently at his shoulders, pulling his face away and into the decrepit light of the basement. His head still reeled, and the light seared his retinas and intensified the pounding drum inside his skull. He squeezed his lids shut again, aware that tears were tracking down his cheeks. Damn it hurt.

"Brandon?" Chris whispered again. His hands were shaking. "What…what just happened?"

"We…gotta _go_," Brandon forced out, "He's…cheater…"

"Cheater? What do you—whoa," he said, catching Brandon as he nearly slid onto the floor, "Okay. Okay, I've got you, just sit still. Breathe. What _happened_?"

"Vision," Brandon said, trying to stand despite Chris's attempts to keep him down. He fell back into the chair. "Nick was…" his voice gave out and he coughed violently.

"Nick?" Chris said, keeping a firm grip on his brother, "You saw Nick?"

"That's how it works," he floundered, trying to clear his head enough to make sense. "Sam's going to die. We have to do something."

**SNSNSN**

Sam was sick to his stomach. It had been over twenty minutes now. Twenty minutes of waiting, twenty minutes of wasted time that they didn't have. He knew what Nick was doing, and it pissed him off. The freak was trying to lure him out into the open. Nick wasn't on a schedule; he didn't have anyone to worry about apart from himself, and he knew Sam's weakness.

Sam needed to end it and get back to Dean; he needed to take his brother to a hospital. He couldn't waste more time.

Finally, conflicted and angry, Sam stood and stepped from his shelter. The sky was brighter; he wished he knew whether that would play to his advantage.

He stalked forward, careful to stay low and quiet. Around him, the forest was waking. A squirrel flitted from branch to branch overhead as birds began their morning chorus of chirps. The noise was welcome; it would serve to camouflage his footsteps.

There_._

He had heard something. Snaking behind a gnarled tree, he kept down and held his breath. Nothing happened. His eyes darted from place to place, searching for a metallic glint, a spot of skin.

_Snap_

Sam threw himself to the ground just as a gun went off. The shot hit the tree, scattering bits of bark all over him. _One shot down…_

Sam launched to his feet, satisfied when the second shot pounded into the dirt where he had been a moment ago. Nick's aim was off. Good. He took off running sideways, keeping himself a moving target while he searched for the man. He spotted him crouched in weeds in the shadow of another tree. Sam gritted his teeth and forced his battered body to run toward his adversary, zigzagging as he went.

Nick brought the gun up again, but he couldn't hold the rifle steady with his mutilated hand. Right before Sam reached him, he tossed the gun to the side and pulled out a knife.

Sam ignored the weapon and ploughed into him. The two toppled, a mess of flailing limbs. Before Nick could gather his bearings, Sam pulled his fist back and slammed it into his jaw.

Nick's head flew back with a gasp, and he sliced at Sam with the knife.

Sam pulled back, and the blade barely nipped his wrist. Adrenaline surged, and he couldn't feel anything; not the old bullet wounds, and certainly not that little scratch. Scowling deeply, he plunged his elbow down against Nick's stomach.

Nick yelped as the air was pushed from his lungs; his fingerless hand smacked worthlessly against Sam's face and neck, and he brought the knife back up and plunged it toward Sam's chest.

Sam twisted out of the way. He grabbed Nick's wrist and squeezed until his skin whitened and shook under the strain, squeezed until his fingernails broke through skin and Nick's blood trailed down his arm. "Let. Go," he growled.

Nick screamed until his voice contorted but did not drop the knife. A couple birds that had been nesting in the tree above them flew off in a rustle of feathers.

Sam kept his grip on Nick and pushed him back into the dirt, keeping his other hand pressed against his throat. "Drop it!" he demanded, cutting off his airflow as he kept the rest of Nick's body pinned with his legs, "Drop it now!"

Nick flailed, still trying to stab Sam and throw him loose.

Sam released his throat and punched him in the face. Again. And again. And again. Blood leaked from Nick's nose and splattered on Sam's knuckles. Sam pulled his fist back again, eyes glinting murderously, and—stopped.

Nick was laughing. Mouth open, eyes twinkling, _laughing_. He had stopped struggling, and his hand dangled limply in Sam's grip.

Sam stalled, taken aback. "What are you doing?"

Nick cackled harder until tears ran down his cheeks through the blood.

Sam shook him, furious. "What?" he shouted, inches from his face. "What the hell's so funny?"

Nick winked at him and looked pointedly over Sam's shoulder.

Sam faltered, suddenly anxious. Now that Nick's laughter was subsiding, he could hear something.

Someone was running toward them.

"Goodbye," Nick said.

Sam swore. He dropped his hold on Nick and spun around, just in time for the first zombie to slam into him.

**Please Review!**


	23. Hunting Part 2

**Thanks for all the comments! Here's part two of the fight, and you'll be happy to know that it does _not _have a cliffhanger ending. Well, not really. ;) **

_Nick winked at him and looked pointedly over Sam's shoulder._

_Sam faltered, suddenly anxious. Now that Nick's laughter was subsiding, he could hear something._

_Someone was running toward them._

_"Goodbye," Nick said._

_Sam swore. He dropped his hold on Nick and spun around, just in time for the first zombie to slam into him._

He fell back onto the dirt, smacking his head off a root sticking out of the ground as the girl screamed in his ear. Her breath was hot against his neck, peppered with flecks of spit. His vision fizzled a bit at the impact. He pulled back reflexively, hands snaking around her throat even as she snapped her teeth.

"Tough luck," Nick said.

Sam grunted, straining his muscles to keep her off. His rifle was lying six feet away in a heap of leaves. Well shit. Nick cheated.

The bastard was gonna _burn_.

Sam kicked out, catching Little Miss Dead in the stomach and sending her tumbling aside. Thinking fast, he snatched up a fistful of dirt and threw it into her face. She howled and squeezed her eyes tight. Momentarily unhindered, Sam vaulted to his feet and turned in the direction of his gun—

_Squelch_

Sam flinched back.

Nick stood before him, shoulders back, arm still extended from the thrust. He released his weapon and boldly rested his fingers on Sam's shirt, giving him a little pat just below where the blood had started to flow. "I'm afraid it's not what we agreed upon, _but_…" he shrugged, retracting his arm.

Sam drew in a breath, staring at the switchblade lodged in his chest. A knife. Really? For god's sake, really? The bastard really thought a little _toothpick_ was going to stop him?

"What?" Nick said, misinterpreting Sam's expression, "Giving up?—"

Sam spun, reacting to a noise behind him, and kicked out blindly. He connected with the dead girl; hit her right below the kneecaps. There was a snap and she toppled. Eyes narrowing, he turned back to Nick, stepped toward him menacingly.

"Ohhhh-kay," Nick said, "I plead insanity. Ha! Is it too late to plead insanity? Oh, and I want a lawyer, a great fat lawyer with thick glasses and a Donald Trump comb over. And perhaps a shot of tequila?"

Sam shut him up with a _look_. He shrugged his shoulders a bit, testing the wound. It was bleeding, but he could breathe fine and the world wasn't going dark, so things were still alright. "Do I _look _like a pincushion to you?"

"Well _yeah_," Nick said, creeping away, "You _are_ a puddle of Swiss cheese, kiddo…shot and stabbed and scratched…go ahead and pull the knife out, it must hurt like a bitch."

Sam expression hardened. "Do I look like a _stupid _pincushion to you? Do you even know how many times I've been stabbed?"

"Hang on, damn it, hang on, I know this, saw it on Double Jeopardy," Nick said as he pulled out a second knife. The blade was long and curved, held with a shiny silver handle. "Twelve times? Am I right or am I right? Warm? Cold? Come on pretty boy, you have to give me something here. Hint it up," he said, and swung the blade forward.

Sam caught his arm and bent it back.

"_Ah_—"

Sam kept his grip, twisting the limb to the point of a break. The knife blade wavered, held tight in Nick's grasp. Sam twisted it further, but before the bone snapped he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

A man stepped out into view. He had half a face. The other side was missing, revealing a rotting jaw of teeth and a weathered cheek bone.

Sam watched the newest obstacle advance with distain. "We really gonna do this again?"

Nick shrugged, "You'll die eventually. Like Dean. I killed hiiiiiiim—shiiit shit shit okay, okay! Stop! You're gonna break it—"

"Call him off!" he growled, wrenching Nick's arm until the other man gasped.

Nick panted, tears springing up from the pain. He grinned, "His name's Walter."

"Call off _Walter_, then."

He's my Spartan warrior," Nick choked out, "Can ya guess why?"

Sam could guess. The dead man had to have been a professional body builder; he had muscles that looked like they had been carved out of marble. They _gleamed. _His veins _bulged_. "Call him off."

"No."

"I'm not asking again."

"No."

"I'll break your arm."

"Yeah? Well, Walter will fold you into _origami_."

The man had picked up speed in his approach. Now, mere yards away, he was a running terror, silent on his feet. Sam tossed Nick to the ground. He turned, dove for his gun.

Walter landed on top of him, pinning him down. He grunted, turned—

A bloody knife plunged right at his face.

**SNSNSN**

"I'm telling you, Nick stabbed Sam through the hand and the zombies chowed down," Brandon said impatiently. "We have to go!"

"But it wasn't real," Chris protested, blocking his brother's way out of the basement, "That didn't happen. It didn't. You look like you're going to fall, so why don't you sit."

"There's no time!"

"Sam will be back—"

"He _won't_!" Brandon screamed, shoving Chris _hard._

Chris fell back against the stairs, smacking his head off the banister. He winced at the impact, and he stayed down. "The _hell_, Brandon," he muttered. He breathed out, his fingers automatically probing his scalp for blood. There wasn't any, but it continued throbbing.

Brandon saw the look in his eyes and forced himself to calm down. Turning, he sank down on the step beside his brother. He averted his gaze. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that. Are you…okay?"

"Me? Oh, I'm great. I love headaches."

Brandon laughed, humorless. He stood back up. "I have to go."

"Sit down," Chris snapped, grabbing a fistful of his brother's jeans and tugging him back down beside him. Brandon sat, but he looked ready to bolt out of there at any moment.

"You don't understand, Chris. You don't _understand_."

"So _talk to me_."

"It's not that simple. I mean…you don't know me _half_ as well as you think you do; you don't know the things I do when you're not around, when you're at work in the hospital. I hunt things, Chris. I hunt ghosts and I hunt demons, and I have vivid visions of people dying and I rescue them. I have a variety of guns and ammunition stashed in a loose floorboard in my bedroom. I haven't used most of them, but it's comforting to me that I own them. Once, hell, _last summer_, I burned down an old house with a possessed man still inside. I didn't want to, but he made me promise I wouldn't let the demon use him anymore."

Chris shook his head, as though trying to shake the words back out of his ears. "No. This…this can't be you. I would have _noticed_."

"Guess I got lucky…" Brandon said, "You're the smartest guy I know, Chris. Really. But…as a doctor, you work long shifts, sporadic hours. It's easy to do what I do without you noticing something's up, even if I did bring some people of the most beat up victims to you for help. Your job is demanding."

"So the guy, the one with the metal spike through his chest, the one you 'found' while running…?"

"Shrapnel. The metal was shrapnel. It got lodged in his chest when the shed exploded."

"The shed…exploded?"

"Yeah. Ghost was ticked."

"And…and the burned girl, the one with—"

"I have to go find Sam, Chris," Brandon interrupted, "Nick's gonna kill him, and if that happens…Dean's probably going to kill _me _when he wakes up."

"But you look like shit."

"Really? Cause I feel…_fantastic_," Brandon said bitterly, using the rail to stand. "I need a gun."

"I'm not letting you out of here."

Brandon looked around the room until his gaze landed on his shotgun. He walked to it, aware that he was still shaking, and bent to retrieve it. A hot pain shot through his chest, and he dropped to a knee.

Chris was beside him in a second, his fingers tight around his shoulder. "Breathe."

"Right, yeah, _breathing_," Brandon said, feeling nauseous even as his fingers wrapped on the gun, "I'm on it. I'm fine. Just gimme a sec, and then I'll go."

Chris pursed his lips. "No."

"Chris—"

"_I'll _go," Chris said, brushing his comment aside, "I'll kill Nick."

That was exactly what Brandon _didn't _want. "No! No, don't you kill him, I don't want that hanging over you."

Chris snapped up the gun. "Look Rambo, you're…shot. You're zombifying as we speak. You're in no position to go."

"Zombifying?"

"Yeah."

"That can't be a word. I'm coming with you."

"Someone should watch Dean…make sure he's okay."

Brandon grabbed at his brother as Chris stood. "You're not going."

Chris flipped him a double thumbs up, already backing toward the stairs. "Oh, I'm going," he said, "So, find Sam, kill Nick…and some zombies. Other requests?"

Seeing that Chris wasn't backing down—and that he wasn't even up to standing, let alone following him—Brandon gave in. "Chris, please—let _Sam _kill Nick," he said.

Chris didn't acknowledge the comment. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Don't die."

"Pffft, I'm not dying," Chris said, heading up the stairs, "Finally paid off my college loans. I've got my soul back from the tuition bloodsuckers and everything." He smiled at him one last time and was gone.

Brandon slumped back on the floor. "Ten minutes!" he shouted as an afterthought, "Or I'm coming after you."

Chris didn't answer.

**SNSNSN**

Sam felt the knife slice through his palm with a burst of pressure. He didn't give himself time to register the wound before he kicked out, knocking Nick aside.

The gun was too far away, and Walter was still on top of him. The Spartan wasn't moving; he seemed to be waiting for orders. Desperate, Sam tried to half drag himself to the weapon, knowing that if he only could get a hold of it he might have a chance. It was like giving a boulder a piggyback ride. Certainly it didn't help that his hand still had a knife embedded in it, either.

There was more growling now. Perfect. Another zombie grabbed his ankle—

"Kill him!" Nick screamed, "Killhimkillhimkillhim!"

Walter's fingers twisted into the back of his shirt and dug into his skin, trying to push him down into the dirt as he opened his mouth-

_BANG_

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, assuming the shot had been for him. His lashes brushed against dirt and he breathed in the scent of pine and wet leaves, waiting. _But…why would Nick shoot him now—when he was about to be eaten—_

Nick roared with anger.

That was encouraging. Walter dropped lifelessly onto his body, pinning him to the ground, which was equally as encouraging, albeit a tad suffocating. Sam tried to tilt his head to the side, simultaneously kicking out at the zombie still scratching at his ankle.

A second shot rang out, and the movement stilled.

"You!" Nick said, crunching leaves underneath his feet as he stepped forward, "You can't be here."

"Don't move! Don't. Move. I _swear_ I'll pull this trigger right now," Chris said, his voice betraying him with a slight waver.

Sam gritted his teeth. Damn. He couldn't let Chris shoot Nick…it was one thing to kill some zombies. Zombies were already dead. Nick was alive and breathing, and the first kill was always the worst when it came to haunting you with guilt. He pushed harder against the Spartan's massive bulk, managing to shift the body enough to allow him to twist half his torso out from underneath. His wounded hand was an annoying hindrance; he couldn't do anything with it without twisting the knife blade, and it was slowing him down. His eyes fell on a gaping hole in the back of Walter's head. Blood dripped steadily, mixing with mud and pine needles. Sam breathed in sharply—he had an idea. He worked faster to get free, careful to stay quiet.

Chris hadn't even lowered his gun since firing the first shot. His finger clutched the trigger like it was all that was holding him to the spot. "You killed all those people."

"Yeah. It was fun."

"You tried to kill Brandon."

"Still might succeed in that, too," Nick said, smiling, "Is it working?"

"Is what working?"

"Convincing yourself it's okay to shoot a _helpless _old man. I don't even have a gun. Dear me I must be getting senile in my advancing years; I'm not to blame for my actions."

Chris scowled. "You don't even look fifty."

"Think of my children."

"You don't have children."

"How would you know that? I do, actually; I have a girl, her name's Molly. She lives in San Francisco, married now, three kids."

"Shut-up!"

"Please…don't shoot me. I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to go this far, I didn't mean for so many people to die. I want to see my grandchildren again," he said. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he stepped toward Chris.

"Hey! Stop it, I didn't say you could move."

Nick ignored him, another tear following the first. "I'm so sorry."

Chris felt his back press against a tree. Trapped, he raised his gun so that the barrel rested on Nick's forehead. Nick had another knife; he could see it glistening in his good hand. "Put that down."

"Don't shoot me, I'm _begging _you."

A third shot pierced the air.

Chris flinched back at the sharp noise, nearly dropping his gun.

Nick fell to his knees.

Chris stared, horrified, "I—I didn't—"

"I did," Sam said darkly, kneeling on the ground a few yards away with the shotgun.

Nick screamed through clenched teeth, clutching the ruins of his hand. The knife lay beside him in the dirt, useless now.

"You okay?" Sam asked, striding to Chris.

Chris nodded. "Yeah, I'm…yeah."

"You fucking bastard!" Nick screeched, "You piece of shit!"

Sam frowned. He nudged him with his boot, sending him falling onto his back where he breathed in loud gasps. "You're fine."

"My…hand!"

"That's the least of your worries."

Nick laughed, in disbelief, "What? You're not…killing me? After all that talk—"

"I've already killed you," Sam said.

Chris looked at him strangely.

"Nah," Nick ground out, "This isn't hell."

"You're infected."

Silence. Nick looked almost…fearful. "What?"

Sam towered over him, impassive. "I laced that shot with Walter's blood," he said, "You're infected, Nick."

Nick glanced at the ruin of his hand, at the blood still dripping. "No."

Sam slammed the butt of his gun into Nick's skull, knocking him out.

**Reviews are loved. :)**


	24. Sleep

**Sorry for the long wait guys! I've been busy with multiple jobs that get me up at 4 a.m. and restrain me until after 5 p.m., at which time I want nothing more than sleep. Unfortunately, that means that if I'd tried to work on this story then it would have turned out like this:**

**Dean: *wakes up, looks around the room, pokes Sam* Dude, wake up! I just had the weirdest dream that I was becoming a zombie. **

**Sam: *waking up* Really? I had the weirdest dream that I was stuck on an island with smoke monsters and polar bears and explosives, and then at the end we found out that we were really—**

**Dean: *interrupts* Shirtless!**

**Sam: What? No. No, it was really lame, we found out that we were really—**

**Dean: We were shirtless, Sam! **_**Shirtless**_** on the island. Damn it, you can't give away spoilers like that! **

**Sam: What?**

**Dean: Go back to bed. My zombie dream sounds better anyway. **

**Needless to say, I didn't think that was a good idea. So here's the **_**lucid**_** next part of the story. Enjoy! **

Nick's fingerless hands left trails of blood in the leaves as Chris dragged him back toward the cabin. The mistreatment probably—_most definitely_—went against every rule he had learned in his medical career thus far, but he wasn't a bit upset. After all, if he 'accidently' smacked the unconscious man off a few trunks and dragged him through a stretch of gravel, was it really his fault? It was early, still dark, and he was likely in shock from the night's events. It was perfectly natural that he wanted to BASH the man's SKULL with a PICKAXE and then boil him in ACID…

"There's some more roots sticking up…over there," Sam grunted to him, pointing.

Chris dragged Nick over the roots without breaking his stride, satisfied when the voodooist's body jerked with each bump. "That's a good one."

"I try," Sam said, managing to keep up. His footsteps were shaky, falling in step with the dull pounding in his head and the all too familiar throbbing of multiple stab wounds. He looked at the knife blades, still stuck in his skin. "Do you think these are worth anything?"

"Handles look pretty snazzy," Chris said, scraping the body across a shallow creek bed, "You might want to hang onto them. Think of it as getting customized piercings."

"I wasn't going to pull them out—there, smash his face against the fallen log…_nice_—not yet. I've lost too much blood. How far to the cabin?"

"You still okay?"

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"You still _walking fine _was what I meant. Of course you're okay…hell, you don't look like a zombie or anything."

Sam held his knifed hand far away from his body, palm up. "So I _do_ look like a zombie."

Chris gripped Nick's feet tighter as they went up a slight incline, "Put simply, the only day children wouldn't see you and run for the freakin' hills would be on Halloween."

Sam smirked. He felt sick. It wasn't a good time to be sick. "Why do people run for the hills anyway?"

"Probably something to do with geology…geometry…uh…"

"Geography?"

"Damn it man, geo-_something_," Chris sniped, giving Nick's legs an extra hard jerk to get him up the hill.

"Maybe it's historical…there, the house. Hurry."

"I'm already hurrying. So are you. You need to hurry _less_, I can't carry you _and _the freak-show here."

"Me? I'm fine. I've had worse."

"Describe worse."

"Dead."

Chris paused to take a breath. They were almost to the front door. "You're right. That's worse."

Sam stumbled up onto the ruined porch. The wood creaked under his boots. "Chris…be careful with the bastard on the stairs. I want to talk to him first."

"First? And then what?"

Sam threw open the door and limped inside. He didn't answer the question. The answer didn't need said. He staggered across the dining room floor, past the ribcage that was buzzing with flies, down the staircase…

Brandon looked up wearily from his spot on the dusty floor. "Good," he said, "You're fine." He let his head drop back against his knees.

"Of course," Sam said. He crossed the dark room to his brother, who didn't appear to be breathing. It was probably just the bad lighting, he couldn't see shit anyway. And his vision was blurry to start. "You alright, Brandon?"

"Dunno," Brandon said, muffled, "I feel weird."

There was a series of slow thumps as Chris slowly dragged his burden down the stairs. "Everyone still okay?"

Sam pressed his fingers against Dean's neck. Nothing. He pushed harder, nearly digging his finger into his brother's neck, and felt—wait—there. Yeah, it was there, a soft flutter. Thank god. "Everyone's alive," he said.

Chris dumped Nick on the floor, treading on his ruined hand as he hurried to Brandon's side. "Hey," he said, touching his shoulder. "Damn, your fever's worse—"

"Out of my way," Sam said, materializing beside him. He swatted Chris's hand away and pushed Brandon upright so that he could see his face—pale skin, unfocused eyes—and pulled down his shirt a little so he could analyze his wound.

Chris inhaled sharply behind him.

"I knew it," Sam snarled, "I knew it." He stood, wobbling a fraction, and went to Nick.

Trying to forget what he had just seen on his brother's chest, Chris crouched helplessly beside him. "Just sit back."

"I don't feel too good," Brandon mumbled.

Sam pulled a jar of mystery fluid off the nearest shelf and took a whiff. Perfect. Nick was still dead to the world, mouth half open. Sam dumped the contents of the jar onto his face.

Nick's eyes flew open, startled to wakefulness. He shrieked, both of his mutilated hands flying up to his head. He turned and spat out a mouthful of the liquid, gagging.

Sam kicked him back onto his back. "Don't."

"The hell was that! You can't just dump those things, coulda killed me—"

Wordlessly, Sam hurled the glass jar down beside his head. The vessel shattered loudly, throwing shards in every direction.

Nick flinched back, paused mid-word. Everything clicked. For the second time in an hour, he looked scared. "Now, wait. Wait a minute. Don't get the wrong idea—"

"You think you can fool me? _Me?_" Sam thundered, looming above him.

"What? No, no I didn't—"

"What the hell was in those vials Nick? _What_? And don't give me any more bullshit."

"It was the antidote—"

Sam kicked him again, catching him sharply in the ribs. "You're infected. Remember? Is that a good enough reason for you?"

Nick paled. "I'm…I'm really…"

"The _vials._"

Nick swallowed hard and continued. "It was…the vials, well…they're just flu shots. Just normal ones, from the drug store down town. I get sick sometimes."

"You had me give them _flu shots_?" Sam said through his teeth.

"Shit, man. Shit. What do you want me to do? I'll do it, okay, I'll do it, just don't let me change. I don't want to be one of them—I don't, I…I have the real antidote, alright? I have it. It's up there, top shelf, left corner, the think I described to you before. It'll work. For the love of god, just give me some, there's loads—"

Chris was already up and moving to the place directed. He dragged the stool over the far corner and peered at the shelf's contents. A box was stuffed to the brim with vials. He looked at Sam. "I've got something."

"That's it, that's it, I _swear_."

Sam motioned to Chris. "Let me see," he said, watching as the man heaved the box down. "Do you have any more syringes?"

Chris sat the box beside Sam's feet. He palmed two of the vials and walked back to his bag. "Yeah, I'll get them ready."

Sam watched him go, forming his next words carefully. "Good. Make one for Nick."

Chris almost dropped the vials. "_What?"_

"Oh thank you, _thank you_—"

"Shut up," Chris sniped at him, "Sam, really, you can't cure him! Not after everything he's done."

"Just make him one," Sam repeated, emotionless. "After all, he told us the truth."

"But he—"

"Now."

Chris snarled. He knelt beside his bag, pulled out the first syringe. "He doesn't deserve it," he said, drawing the dosage into the tube, "He's killed so many people, _caged_ them."

"I know. But we're not monsters like him," Sam said, and held out his hand, "I'll give it to him."

Chris paused, disgusted. He dropped the syringe in his outstretched hand. "This is wrong."

"No!" Nick said, looking between them, "It's not wrong. I'll change. You'll see, I'll change! Just give me the antidote."

Sam crouched beside him, syringe extended to that it nearly pierced his skin. "You're sure this is it, then? _This _is the antidote?"

"Yes! Damn it, yes! Give it to me!"

Sam retracted his arm, held the syringe in the air. "Here, Chris. Take it," he said.

"What?" Chris said, confused.

Nick's eyes widened, and he raised his ruined hands to swipe at the syringe. "No! No, give it to me!"

"Take it," Sam said flatly, holding it out of Nick's reach. He waited until he had taken the instrument from him before adding, "Go back with Brandon. Don't watch."

Chris hesitated. "Oh," he said. He walked back to his brother.

"Wha's going on?" Brandon murmured.

Chris emptied the syringe into his arm with one motion, then pulled Brandon to him. "Just relax," he said, "It's nothing." He stared intently at the wall.

Sam picked up his shotgun. It was still loaded with all four bullets. Wordlessly, he stepped back and aimed the barrel at Nick's forehead.

"Don't, no," Nick said, trying to crawl back, "You said…you said you weren't a monster."

"I'm not," Sam said. He pulled the trigger.

Nick's head shattered, spattering blood and bone up the wall behind him. The body slumped to the floor like a doll. Sam paused, then lowered the gun as the man's blood dripped, already beginning to pool around him.

As he saw the stain spread, it dawned on him that it would be the perfect time for a one liner comment, something like 'Screw you, bastard' or 'That's for my brother,' or 'Only needed one shot.'

He didn't say any of those things; he had already killed the man. There was nothing more to say.

He was tired.

Someone nudged him from behind. Sam turned and found Chris standing there with a full syringe—when had he gotten that ready?—in his hand. "Here," Chris said quietly, "For Dean."

Sam dropped the gun and took the syringe in his left hand. "Thanks," he said. He limped to his brother and plunged the antidote into his bloodstream. Relieved, he sat down heavily and leaned his head against the wall. He would only sit for a moment, just a moment.

Chris's voice interrupted his silence after a few seconds. "Why…why didn't you?"

And damn it, Sam just wanted a few minutes of sleep. That was it. He choked back the frustration that threatened to erupt, deciding that sleeping was probably one of the worst things he could do right then, up on top with dying. He opened his eyes. "Why didn't I what?"

"Cage him," Chris said, "Let him become a zombie. He…he deserved it."

Sam sighed. "I know he did. I wanted to."

"Then why? Why just shoot him?"

Sam pressed his fingers against Dean's neck again, just to reassure himself that his brother was still with him. He relaxed slightly when he found the heartbeat. "Because if I had done what I wanted, it would have made me just as bad as him. And I'm not Nick."

Chris watched him, still doubtful. "I guess," he said.

"You can think about it later," Sam said, resisting the urge to close his eyes again, "We need to get to the hospital."

"Understatement of the year."

"Maybe. You okay with carrying the others to the car?"

Chris eyed him skeptically. "Can _you _walk to the car?"

"I can always walk to the car," Sam mumbled, using the wall to stand. His vision tunneled and spotted. He felt nauseous. Too much blood loss; why was it always too much blood loss?

Chris crouched and got one arm under Dean's back and the other under his knees. He stood, careful not to jostle his injuries. "I'll go first, you follow."

"Right," Sam said. Now that Nick was dead, his body was deciding it was too tired to function; he needed to get to the car fast. "Don't forget Brandon."

Chris laughed, already heading up the stairs. "Right. Because I would have forgotten my brother."

Sam started after him, gripping the banister. "Just want to cover everything before…you know…"

"You pass out?"

"Maybe."

"Don't pass out on the stairs."

"I'm trying," Sam admitted, taking another step up, "And remember to pack the box of vials…in case we need to give them more or something." He paused, startled. He was already at the car, Dean was already propped up in the backseat. He couldn't remember getting there.

"Sit," Chris said, seeing his confusion. He guided him into the passenger seat of the Impala.

"Remember Brandon," Sam said again.

Chris actually laughed. "Yeah, okay. Go to sleep now, I'll get us to a hospital."

"Not too close, somewhere far," Sam muttered, eyes already closing, "Fake names."

"Sleep," Chris said forcefully, shutting the door.

Sam listened to his feet crunch across the gravel driveway toward the house. At that point, he couldn't have opened his eyes if he wanted to, they seemed glued shut. He didn't mind; he was in the Impala, and they had the antidote. Taking a deep breath, he breathed in the scent of the car and, comforted, finally drifted off to sleep.

**Review please! Thanks. **


	25. What Not to Say in Hospitals

**Hello again. Thanks for all the feedback! :D **

**So, funny story for you—it applies!—one of my recent side jobs is scaring guests at Phantom Fright Nights in Kennywood Park. Get this for irony, the hiring people put me in the Voodoo Bayou haunt…which is zombies, cannibals, and other stuff (sound familiar?)…and cast me as the voodoo priestess. Since I've been writing this story for a few months before getting the job, I think it's pretty funny that I was assigned that part. (I've been researching voodoo rituals and priests and zombies like no one's business for the story and now I have to act it out. Haha.) Soooo if you're down in Pittsburgh Friday or Saturday nights this month, stop in and say hi. :)**

**Back to the story. Enjoy! **

As he drove a good twenty miles over the speed limit toward civilization and a hospital capable of miracles, Chris racked his brain for a plausible back story to why the hell he had a car full of half-dead guys with bite marks, bullet holes, and stab wounds.

"_You see, there was this voodoo priest…"_ Annnnnd stop. Voodoo Priest? No. No no, no. That wasn't going to work.

"_You see, there was this _madman_, right, and he had all these people caged up…" _Wait. Can't mention other people, that would raise a million other questions about where they were and what happened to them. Damn it. No other people.

"_He had Dean in a cage, and he was turning him into a zombie…" _A zombie? Oh yeah, cause that won't raise any eyebrows or get him sent to the psycho ward. 'Oh no, _help_, the zombies are coming officer, and they tried to eat my friends.' Yeah, he was getting a straightjacket for sure.

"_My brother, he's apparently psychic…something about visions…and he saw the vood—he saw the _madman _killing Sam, so I got there in time to stop him…" _Probably shouldn't mention visions either. Or his brother's house fire. Or anything to do with him being psychic. Or anything to do with a cure for becoming a zombie—something already deemed unmentionable anyway—

Ah _shit_. There was blood all over the car too. And the windows were smashed.

How the hell was this going to work? How did _anyone _try to explain something like this?

**SNSNSN**

"I don't know who they are. I found them," Chris told the nurse as Sam, Dean, and Brandon were taken in through the hospital doors.

"Alright sir, that's alright," the nurse said, putting her arm out to stop him from going in after them, "They'll be taken care of. Just come with me."

"I don't know who they are," Chris said again, just for emphasis. "Never seen them before."

The nurse smiled sympathetically; she dragged him firmly over to a seat in the corner. "Sit down."

He sat.

**SNSNSN**

"I'm going to need you to fill this out."

Chris jolted up, broken from his thoughts. The nurse stood in front of him, a clipboard outstretched in her French manicured fingers. He glanced at the clock above her head. Ten minutes after twelve. He had been in there over two hours.

"How are they?" he asked nervously.

She smiled faintly, and in that smile he saw pity. "I'm afraid I can't say, not until families have been notified."

_You've gotta be kidding me…_ "I brought them in," he protested.

"I know, sir, but you're not _related. _There's certain protocol."

"Can I at least know if they're _alive_?" he growled.

Her fake smile slid a bit further from her face. "We need to notify the families."

_I'm his brother, damn it! I _am _the family! _He gritted his teeth, swallowed the words back. "Why haven't you done that yet?" he said instead.

"None of them have identification," she said, still holding the clipboard toward him, "Hopefully you can help with that."

Chris didn't move.

"By answering some questions. On this form," she prodded, the clipboard practically poking into his chest.

Scowling, Chris snatched the form from her hands. "Fine," he said, "I'll fill your little form out. But I want to know soon."

"Of course, as soon as we know who they are," she said, watching him struggle to get the pen to write. "An officer is coming to speak with you shortly. About what happened."

"I found them," Chris said flatly, finally getting the crap pen to work. He looked at the first question. It asked for his name. Wonderful.

"It's just a formality," she said, "Then you're free to go."

_That would be great if I wanted to go. _"Oh," he said, "Good."

**SNSNSN**

Sam woke to the sound of fists slamming against the door to his room.

It wasn't the best way to wake up after running from zombies for the past week. In his hazy drug induced state, his hunter mindset fought to gain the upper-hand. After several attempts at opening his eyes he managed to squint through his lashes toward blurs of color. The pounding got louder, undercut by shouting.

Lots of shouting.

Finally, the door clicked open so silently that it would have been unnoticeable if Sam hadn't been listening for it. A dark blur poked out around the doorframe and paused. Sam tried to open his eyes wider and get a clearer look. It wasn't happening.

"Well hello," the doctor said, seeing his lids flutter. She walked on soft steps into the room and picked up his chart. "I apologize for all that. Just an older patient from the psychiatric ward…we're having a bit of trouble keeping him restrained. He's set to ship off to another facility later this week though. You've nothing to worry about."

Her words passed through Sam's ears and whistled out the other side of his head before he could quite get a grasp on what she was saying. It sounded like she was in a tunnel.

Where was his brother? Dean had to be here somewhere; she had to know where he was. He swallowed hard. "W-where…" his voice cracked. His eyes started to slide shut again, and her hand was on his arm in a moment.

"Hang on now. What's your name?"

Sam groaned and tried to wake himself up. His mind screamed for sleep; probably a side effect of the drugs they had leaking into his system. He didn't know who she was or what was happening, but he just wanted to know where his brother was—

"I just need to know your name, and you can rest. Just your name. Can you say it?"

It was too much. Sam's eyes drifted shut.

**SNSNSN**

"So you _found_ them?" the officer said, glancing over the paperwork Chris had filled out.

Chris shrugged. "Yes?"

"While you were out for a walk."

"Yes. Out walking. That's what I am, a walker."

The cop clicked his teeth together. He flipped idly through the paperwork Chris had filled out, then peered back at him. "Listen kid. Are you _sure _that's what happened?"

Chris tried not to grin helplessly. "Yup. That's it."

"Nothing else you want to add?"

"No."

The man exhaled and put the forms back into a manila folder. "Fine. Can I see some identification?"

"I would be glad to give you some identification, officer," Chris said brightly, trying to stop his legs from twitching under the table, "But unfortunately since I was out for a run when I found them, I don't have my license on me."

The cop's lips twitched. "You run in jeans?"

"It stretches the fabric out," Chris said.

"You smell like smoke."

"I had a campfire last night with…uh…with my Boy Scout troop. I'm a Troop Leader, god bless those little rascals," Chris said desperately, "We were singing campfire songs, like that one where the ants are all marching somewhere and…and…_other _campfire songs, like…um…that one that's like 'party rock is in the house tonight, everybody just have a good time.'"

"I see," the officer deadpanned.

"Yeah. We were shuffling _all over_ the woods. Then we roasted some marshmallows and went to bed. I was planning on showering after I got back from my run, but, well, finding those guys put an end to that."

"Right," the man said, making another note on the form. He paused. "One more thing. You wrote that your name is Chris."

"Yeah, that's right."

With seemingly infinite patience, the cop raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a _last name_?"

"Of course I do," Chris laughed, a bit too loudly, "Why wouldn't I have a last name? That would be silly."

"What is it?"

"Oh. Well, it's Chris…Martin. Chris Martin. That's me."

"Okay. And what do you do for a living, Mr. Martin?"

"I…write music. About scientists…and waterfalls."

**SNSNSN**

When Sam woke again, it was black outside. A few florescent lights shone through from the hallway past the glass strip in his door. Shadows draped across the floor.

'_Annnnd it's time for another episode of 'waking up confused in hospitals,' starring the one and only Sam Winchester!' _he thought bitterly. Great. Just…just great. Pulling the oxygen away from his face, he picked his brain for details. Dimly he remembered something about loud noises, and a woman asking for his name…

Everything pinged back in a flash; the zombies, killing Nick, and…

Dean.

Where was his brother? Senses heightened by worry, Sam looked around in the dark. He was alone. There was a second bed, but of course it was unoccupied. He could count on one hand the times he actually knew where Dean was at a time like this.

Sam gingerly tugged an IV from his arm. Two shadows slanted past his room, coupled with voices out in the hall. As they dimmed, he pulled the clip off his finger, wincing as the long flatline drone sounded. Trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the dull throbbing in his chest—they must have put him on some _awesome_ drugs—Sam used his good hand to unplug the machine. Surrounded by silence once more, he slung his legs over the side of the cot and stood.

A nurse took that moment to stroll into the space. She stopped dead at the sight of Sam wobbling on jelly legs. "Oh," she said quickly, marching to him in a second, "Sir, no. You need to sit back down—"

"Where's my brother?" Sam demanded, frustrated by how little it had taken for her to push him back down onto the bed.

"Your brother?" the nurse said, pressing her hands down on his shoulders so he couldn't get up again, "Your brother is here?"

"Yeah," Sam said, mind racing to catch up. She didn't seem to know anything, so that meant Chris hadn't told them squat. Good. "He was with me when, when…" No, if Chris hadn't told her what happened, he wasn't going to either. Sam let himself trail off, then fixed her with his best helpless gaze, "I don't remember. What happened? I can't…I can't…"

"That's alright," the nurse said soothingly, pressing a call button on the wall, "It's going to be fine. What's your name?"

"Sam."

"Last name?"

_Who do I want to be today? _ "Romero," he said in a rush, then grabbed her wrist as she started writing it down, "Where's Dean? Is he okay?"

"His name's Dean?"

_Tell me she's just being obnoxious and isn't stalling for time. _"Yeah, yeah, Dean—is he alright?"

"Well Sam, _two _men were brought in with you yesterday. Do you remember that? _Two _men."

_Oh for the love of god…_ "Yes, I think so."

"What was the other man's name?"

"Look, I just want to know how my brother is doing, okay? Can you just tell me that?"

"I'm not sure which man is your brother. Can you help me work it out? I mean…what injuries did he have?"

Sam squeezed his mouth shut. _Can't kill her. Can't kill her. _"I just told you I don't remember what happened! How would I know what injuries he has?"

"Okay. Okay, that's okay," she said, pressing the call button again. She looked out the door, anxiously waiting for help to arrive. "Look, I'm just an intern. I summoned your doctor, she should be here shortly—"

"Can you at least tell me if they're alive?" Sam asked, trying to simplify his questions, "Both of them?"

"Um…"

Sam's heart dropped. "Um?" he demanded, voice rising, "'Um?' What do you mean 'um?'"

"Oh, no, they're alive," the girl said quickly, amending her mistake. "They're alive. Now just lie back down, you're in pretty bad shape—"

"Can I see them?"

"Not right now, you shouldn't even be up," she said, trying to push him back into a lying position. It wasn't working. "Your doctor is—"

"I don't care who's coming, I want to know from _you," _Sam said, agitated. He accidently clenched his bad hand and winced as pain shot through his arm. "How are they?"

"Well…" she said, playing nervously with the ring on her left hand, "Last I checked, about…ten minutes ago, the first is doing alright. He hasn't woken up yet, but his injuries are stable. We won't know for sure until he wakes, though."

"And the second?" Sam said, already dreading the answer.

Her lips formed a tight smile, sympathetic. "The second…he's in a coma."

**Please review! Thanks for reading. **


	26. Waking Up

**Hello everyone. I'm very, very sorry it's taken me this long to update. Between working multiple jobs and cramming in a couple hours of sleep every night (not to mention writers block), I really don't have much free time anymore. I've been working on this bit by bit, though, and it's finally ready to post. If it helps, this is a long chapter. Enjoy. **

_"And the second?" Sam said, already dreading the answer._

_Her lips formed a tight smile, sympathetic. "The second…he's in a coma."_

Sam sat on his bed digesting that slip of information as the intern bolted away—nearly running into the wall in her haste—to fetch his doctor. Normally, he would have torn after her, but he felt numb and angry and in pain all at once. Detached. He sat up further. There was a brown stain on the ceiling, and the clock on the wall seemed to tick far too loudly.

"That's it. Lie back down."

Sam jerked up at the voice to find a wrinkly old woman—his doctor?—leaning over his bed, and all former pretenses that he was fine fluttered away. How had a normal person snuck up on him like that? His mind reeled, still messed up from the past week's events. What was she? Was she even human? "Don't," he said, pushing her hands away. Her skin was practically transparent. She smelled like a retirement home.

The doctor wasn't going to be brushed off as easily as the intern. "I will be out in a minute. You need more medicine…your body has been through a lot of trauma."

Sam switched from suspicious to defensive in an instant. Mystery meds? From a strange woman who had snuck up on him? No thanks, not with his track record. "I have to see Dean first."

"Your brother is in the ICU, young man. We're taking good care of him."

"You don't even know which guy I'm talking about," Sam said, frustrated, trying not to look at the few yellowed teeth left in her mouth, "How are you going to take care of him if you don't know which one he is?"

"We take care of _everyone_, Sam," she said patiently, "This is a _hospital._"

Sam tried to think quickly. It was hard—his mind wanted to take a siesta for a few weeks. "I want to see the guy who brought us in."

She scribbled something down on her clipboard. "How do you know someone brought you in? I thought you didn't remember anything about your…" she paused, "Accident? Was it an accident?"

Sam could've choked her. "I'm sorry, are you a cop?"

"No."

"Then stop with the cross questioning, lady. I can barely see straight, alright? You really think I'm up for 'story time?' I can barely get out of this bed. I want to see my brother."

"Not now—"

"You can't keep me in here," he growled, "Bring me a release form. I'll sign it right now, I swear to god."

She stepped away. Taking off her thick glasses, she began rubbing the glass squares furiously with a square of her scrubs.

"I told you to bring me a release form," Sam said louder, feeling his vision blanch a bit at the overexertion. He blinked hard, forcing the room to come back into focus.

"Ahem," a voice said.

Sam and his doctor turned toward the door. Chris stood there, one hand hesitantly raised to knock. "Hello?" he said.

"Chr—" Sam stopped, catching himself before he could call him by his name (since they had supposedly never met before) and turned the syllable into a cough instead, which, unfortunately, led to an actual coughing fit.

The doctor rushed toward Chris as Sam proceeded to hack his out his lungs and—possibly—his spleen. "Oh no, this is unacceptable," she said, grabbing the intruder's arm with gnarled fingers, "You're out of here."

"But the girl at the front desk—"

"Don't care."

"She told me to come up—"

"Out!"

Still coughing, Sam pushed himself back up on the bed and swung his legs over the side. "Wait," he sputtered.

"Don't you dare get out of that bed, mister! You _sit_," she hissed, fixing Sam with her beady eyed stare, "Good…now _stay_."

"W-what?" Sam choked out incredulously, managing to calm his breathing a bit.

"He's not a dog," Chris muttered without thinking.

She pursed her lips, furious. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You said…" he trailed off and raised his hands. "Look, ma'am, I don't want to cause any trouble. I just wanted to talk to him, see how he's doing. I was the one that brought them in."

"Well aren't you a good boy. Now get out!"

"Just let me talk to him, please?" Sam broke in, before the doctor's reddening face could start steaming, "I won't ask you for anything else tonight. And I'll stay in bed."

Her glare deepened.

"Please?" Sam added, putting his kicked puppy face to good use.

She breathed out loudly and snatched up her clipboard. The pages fluttered. "You know what? Fine. Fine. You want to excite yourself, cause a relapse and send yourself spiraling into cardiac arrest—"

"I'm not relapsing—"

"You go right ahead," she said, and sniffed, "I have others to attend to."

Sam and Chris watched her bustle down the hallway, bumping into a few people that had the misfortune to cross her path. As soon as she was out of sight, Chris dropped the fake smile from his face and shut the door. "Sam," he said quickly, voice strained, "How's Brandon?"

Sam shifted in the bed, wincing when he found that there _wasn't _a comfortable way to lay down with all his injuries. "I don't know," he said.

"No one will tell me anything," Chris continued, pacing over to the window, "Cause I'm not _family_. Worst joke of my life. How the hell do you two deal with this damn hospital business all the time? I mean…shit, I'm amazed no one's slapped me in cuffs, dragged me out back and shot me."

"Shot you?" Sam muttered, careful not to speak too loudly and trigger more coughing.

"I'm a shitty liar," he clarified, "Or this is a shitty situation to try to explain. Or both…it doesn't matter. I don't care if they throw me in jail—how's Dean? Did they at least tell you how _he _is?"

"I got most of my info from an intern," Sam said, "So I don't know much of anything."

"Are they _alive_?"

"Yeah," Sam exhaled, leaving out the part about the coma, "Yeah, they're alive."

Chris's shoulders sagged. "Thank god," he said, sinking down on the corner of the cot, "Thank god."

Sam swallowed back the bitterness of uncertainty. Worrying wouldn't help. Facts would. "I need you to do something."

Chris glanced at him, took in Sam's expression, and frowned. "Oh no."

"I need you to sneak into the ICU and check up on them."

Chris's face soured. "They're in the ICU?" he said, knowing full well what that could mean.

"Relax," Sam said, trying to make light of the situation, "I've been in the ICU dozens of times and come out fine."

"Yeah, well, you're _you,_" he said, picking at his jeans, "And Dean…he seems like a tough guy. My brother…he's not built for this shit."

"We made it this far; no one's dying now," Sam said dismissively, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded, "So go find a doctor's coat, walk into the ICU like you own it, and figure out how they're doing. We might need to give them more of that antidote."

Chris worriedly looked away, "Nah, man. I'm not…I can't…you need a new plan. I'm a terrible liar. I already told you."

"Yeah, but you're a good _doctor_," Sam said, "And that's what I'm asking you to pass for here."

Chris sat silently on the cot for a moment. "Alright," he said, and left the room.

**SNSNSN**

He was back within fifteen minutes.

Sam hadn't expected him to return so quickly. Truthfully, he wasn't ready for him to be back. He didn't really want to hear how badly Dean was doing—_again_—or how screwed Brandon was. He didn't want either of them to be in a coma. One look at Chris's face screamed the answer to Sam's question before he could even ask it. Sam had seen that look before—on his own face. He knew then who was in the coma.

He was ashamed to realize he felt relieved.

"Dean hasn't woken up, but he's stable. For now," Chris said, closing the door with a silent click. He took a breath. When he spoke again his voice shuddered with every syllable. "Brandon's in a coma."

Sam groaned inwardly. "Chris…"

"I…I don't know what to do," Chris continued, ignoring him, "I mean, a few hours ago I thought he was dead in a fire and then he was _alive_, and now he's dying again, and I'm not ready to go through this all over, I can't handle it a second time. He has to be alright."

"He's not dying."

"Well he's not _healthy_. I don't know how this transformation shit works, what if he wakes up a zombie?"

"He has vitals, right?" Sam said.

"Bad ones, yeah."

"The zombie Dean and I found in a hospital didn't have any vitals. If Brandon's got them he's fine."

"You found a zombie in a hospital?"

"We're weird people with equally weird lives, of _course _we found a zombie in a hospital."

"Oh. Well don't I feel gypped," Chris shot back sarcastically, "Y_ou _might be weird, but I'm normal. I am a perfectly ordinary, not supernatural person. How come I'm involved with all this zombie crap? How come you got Brandon involved?"

"Brandon got _himself _involved. And he's in this because he has visions."

"Oh, right. Visions. Whatever the hell they are, I wouldn't know. He never _said_—"

"Don't," Sam interrupted him, "I know you're angry because he's hurt; don't say something you're going to regret."

"I'm not going to have to regret anything because he _damn well_ isn't going to die," Chris said fiercely, "I'll kick his ass if he so much as thinks about dying. He's just in a coma."

"Which brings us back to square one," Sam finished, silencing him, "We need to figure out how Brandon's doing so we can give him more of the antidote if he needs it."

"Oh, that's rich!" Chris interjected, "How are we going to do that? Tell the doctors about the new Zombie Flu? 'Oh yeah guys, it's like the Bird Flu only it kills people and turns them into mindless cannibals.' Yeah, that'll work."

"No, not the staff. I was planning on asking _him_," Sam said carefully.

"Him?" Chris said flatly, standing and pacing across the room, "What do you mean, 'him?' Like…God, 'Him?' The band 'H.I.M.?"

"No, 'him' as in Brandon."

Chris paused. "Some other guy named Brandon with miraculous healing powers?"

"No," Sam said patiently, "Your Brandon."

"My…brother?"

"His name _is _Brandon, right?"

Chris exhaled in a whoosh. He walked back and stood over Sam. "Sam…," he said slowly, as if addressing an idiot, "I know you might be concussed or something right now, so I'll say it slowly. Brandon is in a _coma_. He can't answer us."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do me a favor, Chris."

"Yeah?"

"Stop thinking logically."

"Excuse me?"

"From now on, I want you to believe that everything I tell you is—would you stop pacing? Sit down already, you're making me dizzy—thanks," he said, shutting his eyes for a moment. "What was I…"

"Everything you say," Chris regurgitated, dutifully sitting at the very edge of the bed.

"Right. Believe everything I tell you," Sam said, and leaned toward him for emphasis, "And stop questioning everything I say."

"O-kay…"

"If I say that trees get up and skip around when you're sleeping and it's dark out, I want you to say, 'Oh, that's nice.'"

"But they don't."

Sam reached out and punched him—as well as he could, injured as he was—in the shoulder.

Chris flinched back. He rubbed his shoulder, more annoyed than hurt. "Come off it, Sam, they _don't_—"

Sam punched him again.

Chris swiveled his eyes to the door. "Would you stop?" he hissed, "The freaky witch doctor is going to come back and kick me out."

"Well _that's_ too bad, I guess you'll have to believe everything I say, then, won't you?"

Chris gritted his teeth. Rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Just tell me what to do."

"Go out and buy an Ouija board," Sam said.

Chris paused. "An Ouija board? What does that…" he said, and trailed off.

"Yes?" Sam said edgily.

"I'd _love_ to go randomly purchase an Ouija board for you," Chris said instead through a fake smile, "What a great way for me to use the remaining time my brother has left."

Sam fought back the urge to beat him with a pillow. _This is all new to him, this is all new to him, this is all new to him— _"We're going to use the thing to talk to Brandon,"he said finally, "That's what the Ouija board is _for_."

A slight pause. "Aren't those for talking to ghosts?"

_Yeah. Ghosts are dead. Your brother is comatose and nearly dead. _"It works, okay? I promise. Hurry up and get one."

"But…isn't that black magic? Do I have to go to a special Wiccan store or something?"

"Yeah. Wal*Mart," Sam deadpanned.

"…Oh."

"Just go get it and sneak it back in here as fast as humanly possible. Make sure no one recognizes you…wear a disguise or something. Something _discreet._"

"I'll be discreet. I'm always discreet," Chris said defensively.

"Really? What name did you use when you signed the forms they gave you?"

Chris opened his mouth. Shut it again. "A…very discreet name."

"Tell me you're not the reason people in the hall have been running around saying the guy from Coldplay is here."

"Is he?" Chris said, walking toward the door, "Sweet. I've always enjoyed their music. Maybe I'll get an autograph…if I see him."

"You won't."

"There might be a mirror somewhere," he said, grinning. Right before he crossed the threshold he paused, walked back, and pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. "Here."

Sam took the bag in his good hand and looked at it. Paused. "…Hair?"

"Dean's hair," Chris said, grinning. "Who's the confused guy now?" he taunted, pulling a small bottle out of his other pocket. He handed it to Sam. "I stashed it with the vials of antidote when I left Nick's house," he explained, "It's more of the dream root…go get him to wake up."

**SNSNSN**

Sam fell asleep as soon as his eyelids slid shut. It was a pleasant change from the usual hour or two (or three, or four) spent wrestling with his mind, sweeping an ocean of fears and worries into a cell using only his willpower (which, in proper scale with the problems stacked against him, might as well have been the size of a child's toothbrush) before he could finally find sleep.

It was obvious to Sam that Dean was in the midst of a nightmare the moment he slid into his dream. He found himself standing back at Nick's house, in the dining room. The lights flickered off and on, illuminating walls splattered with blood and pieces of bone. Sam briefly regretted that they hadn't burned the place to the ground before leaving. He made a mental note to return and do just that after everything blew over. Dean would have fun with the project.

As for the present, Dean was—of course—absent. That didn't mean he was alone in the room.

"Hello Winchester."

Sam ground his teeth together, staring distastefully at the man beside him. "You're dead," he said, "Where's Dean?"

"Nah," Nick laughed, "I'm not dead. I beat you, remember?"

"You didn't…" Sam said, and trailed off. It came to him then, the whole premise of Dean's current nightmare wrapped up neatly with a bloody ribbon. Dean didn't know that Sam had actually won, that Nick was dead. He had drifted off into a deeper sleep before Sam had returned victorious, so if he had heard anything, it had been Brandon babbling on about having a vision that Sam was going to be killed. "Damn it," Sam muttered, pushing Nick aside as he tried to get further into the house. A plate of iron dropped in front of him, effectively cutting him off from the rest of the building. He pounded his fist on the metal. "Dean!"

"You're Sammy," Nick said, unnaturally fast. His eyes didn't even blink. "You're _Dean's _Sammy, soon to become _my _Sammy. My Sammy will do whatever I want him to do. Sweet little Sammy."

"I'm not your Sammy. You're just a dumb memory; I killed you," Sam said flatly.

"Not _here_," Nick said, smile widening.

No, Sam realized, in this dream world Nick had succeeded in killing him.

"Dean!" he called out again, throwing caution to the wind. Dream Nick already knew he was there; the time to be subtle had passed. "Where are you?"

"He's mine," Nick hissed.

"No, he's _mine,_" Sam said fiercely, "He's mine and you're dead, so shut the hell up and leave us alone."

Nick laughed, filling the room with his booming voice.

Sam looked around. There was only one other door, and it led outside. He walked out the door, looking back only when the laughter cut off abruptly.

The man had disappeared.

Shaking his head, Sam stepped further out onto the wooden porch. "Dean!" he called out again. The wood groaned under his weight. He treaded carefully, unsure of what would happen if he fell through. Since no one was using the dream root to hurt Dean, he'd probably just wake up.

He didn't want to wake up. He wanted to find his brother, talk to him.

Darkness like tar settled heavily at the base of the porch steps. He couldn't see six inches in front of his face. Taking one last glance at the crooked house, he stepped out into the blackness. His feet rustled something—leaves maybe?—that he couldn't see. He wished for a flashlight, but realized that it probably wouldn't have helped him here anyway.

"Dean?" he called out into the dark.

Silence answered him. Not normal silence, filled up with bird chirps, car wheels whooshing along pavements, the whirring of fans, creaks of old houses, and planes flying high overhead. This was a nothing silence. It pounded out a ballad of nothings and taunted him that nothing was out there, especially not Dean.

"C'mon bro, I was never good at hide-and-seek," Sam said louder, stepping forward cautiously.

The air was icy; it pushed against him as he walked. The porch lights dimmed to a pinpoint as he got farther and farther from them. Finally, the lights went out altogether.

Sam paused mid step. "Dean?" he whispered. His heartbeat seemed to be playing in stereo it was so loud.

He walked brisker now, forcing himself to keep moving blindly, repeating the silent mantra—_just a dream, just a dream, just a dream—_ "Dean, please. Where are you..."

"I'm here," Nick said, just behind him. Sam felt the man's hand on the back of his neck, cold as ice. Snarling, he swatted it away.

He started to run. There had to be a way out, it was somewhere—

Breathing heavily, he stumbled, nearly losing his footing, and staggered a few more steps.

Sunlight streamed down on him, so bright that his unadjusted eyes snapped closed in pain. He squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes, and found that he was standing in the forest. Turning to get a better idea of where he was, he saw an object rushing toward him out of the corner of his eye.

He ducked just in time to avoid the ax pummeling toward his face. The miss had been so close he felt wind course over his cheek. Sam backed up and turned completely, hands automatically reaching for weapons that he didn't have. Damn dreams always taking his guns…

Nick loomed in front of him, an ax held in each hand, rifles strapped to his back (possibly a chainsaw, too. It was hard to tell.). There was a guy not missing out on firepower—the dream gave it to him. Or, moreover, Dean did, since Dean controlled the dream...where was he?

As Nick smirked for the hundredth time, Sam managed to spot his brother. Dean was crouched at the base of an oak tree, eyes squeezed shut, covered in blood. "Dean—"

Nick took a little step and appeared in front of him, eyes glowing so brightly that Sam could actually feel heat radiating from them. Sam dropped, hitting the ground just under the blade, and rolled to the side, sprinting toward his brother.

Nick appeared in front of him, flashing like an old movie projection. "You won't get him to wake up, Sammy boy. He's too far gone as it is. He can't hear you, he can't see you—" Laughing, he swung both axes down.

Sam ducked under one blade and reached up, grabbing the second weapon's handle to offset his opponent. Nick snarled and swung the unhindered ax down, but Sam kicked his knee, sending him spiraling off balance.

With Nick down, Sam continued his dash toward Dean. A shot roared, and the tree by Sam's head splintered, spewing bark everywhere. Sam didn't pause. Dean still wasn't moving—dream Nick was right. He couldn't see or hear, and he probably didn't even know he was in a dream. Or that he needed to wake up.

Finally reaching his brother, Sam dropped to his knees and grabbed a hold of him. Dean tensed instantly and pushed against him blindly, not having a clue what was happening. Unsure of what else to do, Sam pulled him into a one armed hug, feeling blood from Dean's hair smear across his face.

Dean stilled, recognition dawning.

Sam turned, eyes searching for Nick, but he needn't have bothered. The man stood beside them, the butt of his rifle inches from Sam's face. "Hello, kid," Nick said, grinning toothily.

Sam pulled his brother closer, resting his free hand on his arm. Unsure of what else to do, he began spelling a word onto Dean's skin using his pointer finger.

_D…R…E…_

Nick pressed the rifle to Sam's forehead. "Feel free to try again…" he said, finger squeezing the trigger, "It's fun killing you here."

…_A…M…_

Sam tensed, praying that Dean would understand even as he waited for the jerk that would send him spiraling back to consciousness. He would need to get more dream root…maybe he could send Chris back to Nick's house—

Nick pulled the trigger.

_Click_

There was a moment's pause, and then Nick frowned, pulling the rifle toward his face to inspect it. "This shouldn't be—"

He evaporated in a puff of vapor. His myriad of weapons clattered to the forest floor, coming to rest a few inches from Sam's shoe.

Sam kicked the ax blade away. He didn't need to make some stupid misstep and wake himself up by impaling himself with it; his luck was bad enough without the assistance of sharp objects.

"…Sam?"

He looked up at Dean's cautious tone and took a look at his brother. The blood was still all over his clothes, but he was looking back at him, and he looked normal, thank god. "Hi," he said, trying to make his tone light, "You're dreaming."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "But Nick—"

"Nick's dead. I killed him, and we're all in a hospital. You're _dreaming_," Sam finished, trying to nail the point home as quickly as possible. He noticed that the trees were starting to blur together and loosened his hold on his brother, "That's it, wake up. You have to wake up."

Dean paused before answering. "No," he said. He gritted his teeth and held the dream in place, forcing their surroundings to become clear again.

"No?" Sam repeated, taken aback, "Dude, _yes_. You have to wake up. I came into your freaky head to _get _you to wake up."

Dean blinked hard and put a hand to his head. "Not yet."

Letting go of his brother, Sam sat heavily beside him. He waited, keeping an eye out in case Nick—or something else—decided to show up.

"You're…okay."

Sam smirked slightly. "No need to sound so surprised."

"Are you okay? Really okay?"

"Yeah."

Dean wasn't going to be convinced so easily. "Why are you in the hospital then?"

"Ah, well…mostly because I'm the Winchester definition of okay."

"Bleeding all over the place? Unconscious?"

"Yep. Not anymore though."

Dean sighed out, looking away. "Good," he said, "That's good."

Sam waited for a few moments. "Dean," he said finally, "You need to wake up. The doctors will have a better idea of how to help if you wake up."

"How are the others?" Dean pushed on, ignoring him.

"Dean," Sam said, "I really think you should—"

"Sam," Dean said sternly, interrupting him. He gave him a _look_.

Sam smiled. He gave in. "Chris is fine," he said, "Not a scratch. He brought us all in here, told everyone he was Chris Martin and that he writes music."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that…"

"The guy from Coldplay? Yeah. And the best part? The nurses are wandering around the hospital trying to find him. Last I heard, someone found an old guitar lying around and they were going to have him play a song on it."

"Oh god…"

"Yeah. He sucks at staying under the radar," Sam said. His smile fell a bit. "Brandon's in a coma, though. Probably because the infection was so close to his heart. And…Chris isn't taking it too well."

Dean groaned. "Ah hell…" he muttered.

"I've got him off buying an Ouija board," Sam continued. "I don't know if it always works in these situations, but it's worth a shot."

Dean looked at him blankly.

"Oh…yeah…" Sam said, interpreting his stare, "You don't remember? Uh…it's what I did to talk to you…when you were in a coma."

Dean's confused stare didn't change. "I was in a coma?" he said flatly.

"Yes…" Sam said slowly, "Uh…a few years ago."

"I don't…" Dean said, and trailed off. He slammed his fist into the dirt. "Damn it! I can't remember."

Sam gritted his teeth. "Dean…it's alright, you didn't remember it then, that doesn't mean anything—"

"My memory's still shot, Sam, that's what it means," Dean answered angrily, "I can't think worth shit."

"No," Sam said, leaning closer to him, "You're thinking, okay? You're talking to me, aren't you?"

"In a _dream_."

"That counts! Hey, it's not our fault we live screwy lives. You just need to give it time."

"Sam…the infection messed me up bad."

Sam knew what Dean was talking about. He didn't want to hear it. "Dean, I really think you should just let yourself wake up now—"

"No," Dean said hotly, grabbing Sam's shoulder tightly, "I don't want to wake up. I want to _talk _to you, Sam, and I can't fucking talk to you out there!"

"Dean, I'll tell you everything that happens."

"Exactly!" Dean said, not letting go, "You'll _explain_. And you know what I'll do? I'll lie there, blind, unable to talk, probably drool a little—"

"Don't," Sam pleaded, "Dean, don't."

"You gave me the antidote, right?"

"Yes," Sam said, "And it just needs time to work."

"Well what if it doesn't reverse the damage? What if it can't fix me like we want it to? What if I never see again, or talk again—"

"It'll work," Sam said fervently, "It will."

"I'm just saying, it could happen. What then? What if I'm never me again?"

"You're _you_," Sam said, "I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

"For the last time, this is a _dream_."

"This isn't just a damn dream!" Sam finally exploded, "It's you dreaming with me inside your head."

"I know that—"

"Well there's a difference. And while we're on the subject, I'd like to say that you need to work on having friendlier dreams in the future, because every time I take a stroll into your head something tries to kill me!"

"Things are always trying to kill us, Sam."

"Yeah, well, control your subconscious," Sam said shortly, staring him down, "And as to your 'what if' question, I'll tell you what if."

"Sam—"

"If it comes to that—and it damn well _won't_—then I'll just stockpile dream root and use it all the time. Did you think I was just going to abandon you or something—"

"Sammy—"

"But it doesn't even matter because _you're _going to be okay, and so is Brandon. And I'm finally going to get a hold of Bobby and beat the living shit out of him for disappearing when we needed him—"

"Sam stop, okay? Stop. I'm sorry. Just…just calm down."

Sam took a long breath. He was shaking.

"It's alright," Dean said softly, "I didn't mean to…look, I'll probably be fine."

"You _will _be fine," Sam corrected forcefully.

"Right. I will be fine. Definitely. No question about it."

Sam nodded, and sniffed. "Can you wake up? Please?" he said, "I just want to make sure that if there's something the doctors can do once they notice you're awake, they'll do it."

Dean realized his hand was still latched onto Sam's shoulder. He gave it a quick squeeze and let go. "Sure, Sam," he said, "I'll wake up."

Sam nodded. "Good," he said. He waited.

The dream's colors started blurring together again.

"Dean," Sam said quickly, "I…I have a little more dream root left, okay? I'll use it later, we can talk more then."

The dream faded to black.

**Please Review. Thanks!**


	27. Ouija Boards

"I'm back," Chris announced wryly, striding into Sam's room and tossing the Ouija board onto the bed, "How are you doing? Good? That's lovely. I'd like to point out that you owe me twenty bucks for this piece of shit. If it doesn't work, I'm upping the compensation to thirty."

"Hello to you, too," Sam said.

"So?" Chris continued, playing with his keys nervously, "Do we have to wait till midnight or something? Turn out all the lights and find some candles?"

Sam managed to not laugh. "Yeah that's right. Except we also need to find some sort of animal to sacrifice. You know, so the spirits will be pleased."

Chris coughed. "Er…" he said, paused. "What?"

"No man, we're good," Sam said, smiling, "We can do it now. Just shut the door so the help is less likely to barge in on us."

Chris stood there for a moment. "That's not funny," he said, "Just a few hours ago you told me to believe everything you said."

"Yeah, I did. And look how well you're doing with that so far," Sam said. He picked the box up and found that it had been helpfully child proofed by the production company, wrapped with layers of plastic and held in place by sticky film that glued down every seam. He put the box back on the bed. "Chris?"

"For the record, I'd like to say that I will _not _sacrifice a sheep in here for you," Chris said, folding his arms.

"Actually, I was just going to ask if you'd open the packaging," he said, holding up his bandaged hand.

Chris made a face. He swiped the box off the bed and began picking at one of the corners. "So, how's Dean?"

"Awake," Sam answered, watching him struggle, "I got him to wake up. There was a storm of activity in the hallway awhile back, so I figure the staff is pumping him full of meds and painkillers. The doctor came in ten minutes ago…said he was doing 'fine.'"

"That's vague," Chris grumbled, managing to pick a sliver of plastic off the edge.

"I was just glad she didn't rush in and give me a sedative. I'll check on him tonight…when the halls are mostly vacant."

"Right," he said, not really paying attention, "Look, do you have a knife or something? This is ridiculous."

"This is a hospital."

"Yeah. Like that'd stop you. Do you have a gun?" Chris ranted, and then stopped talking as the edge finally gave way. He peeled the wrapping off and tossed it to the floor. "Finally," he said, laying the plastic board on the bed. He sat across from Sam. "What now?"

"Put a couple fingers on the pointer," Sam said, demonstrating with his good hand.

Chris put two fingers on the piece, paused, and withdrew them. "This is dumb," he said, "This won't work."

"It should…" Sam said, "There's a good chance, since Brandon's in a coma—"

"Yeah? How do _you_ know it'll work?"

"I did it with Dean. When he was in a coma."

That got him interested. "You did? How did he wake up?"

_Well…my Dad made a deal with a demon and went to Hell._ "Oh, you know…he just did, eventually."

Chris looked at him sternly, then put his fingers back on the pointer. "So I ask a question?"

"Yeah."

Chris thought for a moment. "Is anyone there?" he asked.

Sam made a noise in his throat. "Don't say 'anyone,'" he said, reproachfully, "You need to be more—"

"What?" Chris interrupted, "Did I do something wrong—oh hey it's moving. Shit. Holy shit. Are you doing that?"

Sam looked at him. "Really? Do I _look_ like a teenager? Are we having a slumber party?"

"Shhhhh! Don't talk. It went to yes. Does that mean he's here?"

Sam breathed in, trying to stay patient. "I don't know. Why don't you ask?"

"Are you here—"

"Ask if _Brandon _is here."

"Are you _Brandon_?" Chris amended, glaring at Sam. He hissed "You didn't say I had to be that specific."

"It was implied."

"Shut up, Sam—oh. Oh. It went to no."

"So it's not Brandon," Sam said, "You need to politely—"

"Get the hell out of here, ghost," Chris said loudly, "I want to talk to my brother."

Sam groaned. "Chris…"

"What? I'm doing this. Just let me work, I'll get it."

"For future reference, try not to piss off any evil spirits that might be here."

"Oh shut it, you're being paranoid, this hospital's in the middle of nowhere; that many people can't have died here."

Sam opened his mouth to say something.

"Shhhhhhh!" Chris said, and leaned in toward the board. "Brandon, if you can hear me, you better damn well say so. Now."

They paused, waiting. Nothing happened.

"Just give it time," Sam said, "He's probably weak."

More seconds ticked by, and then it moved. To yes.

Chris leaned back, barely managing not to take his hands off the piece. "Oh god," he said slowly, "So that means he…"

"I think so."

"That's good, right?" Chris asked, looking bleak, "But, I mean…this is for use with ghosts. If he's a ghost…that's bad, isn't it?"

**SNSNSN**

Brandon was feeling distressed. He was in a hospital (which in itself wasn't too bad but was, in fact, _fantastic_ because that meant no zombies were around). He was upset because his body was hooked up to a bunch of tubes and weird looking thingies, and—most importantly—that _he wasn't in it_.

"So what do we do?" Chris was asking Sam, looking like he wanted to jump up and pace frantically around the room, "What should I ask him?"

Sam sat there. Calmly. "What do you want to ask him?" he said, relaxed, as though they were discussing what to eat for dinner.

Brandon made a note to slug him for it later. No one should be that calm. It should be illegal to be that calm.

Of course, Chris was on the whole other end of the spectrum. "I don't know!" he shouted.

Brandon moved closer so that he could've reached out and touched either of them. "You're kidding," he said, in disbelief as he watched his brother think, "You're going to ask me something? Me? I don't know what's going on."

"Should I ask him what's going on?" Chris suggested.

"Oh, come _on_!" Brandon shouted at him.

Sam shrugged. "No…he probably doesn't know."

"Thank you," Brandon told him (even though he knew they couldn't hear him). He chewed on his lip and tried to recall things he knew about Ouija boards.

He didn't know much.

His only experience stemmed from a two month fling with a girl back in high school. Her mother worked in childcare, her father was a preacher, and she wore black nail varnish and heavy makeup and held Wiccan gatherings in the woods behind her house. Her name was Christabelle, but she made her followers call her Queen Maleficent the Bloodthirsty. She ruled over her less-popular friends from school and had them participate in all kinds of rituals and spells she found online.

Their romance was doomed from the start, but her French kisses were divine, and she wore skirts that didn't cover much of anything. In the end Brandon figured a couple poorly executed spells (they could never find any of the proper ingredients to use) and frequent attempts to contact the spirit world (which mostly consisted of someone moving the pointer on the Ouija board so that it told them that they were all going to die) was worth it.

It was interesting to learn that Ouija boards actually could work. He briefly wondered if Queen Maleficent the Bloodthirsty had ever actually managed to contact a ghost.

He didn't really care.

Chris was still arguing with Sam about what to ask him. Brandon reached for the pointer and moved it. Damn, the thing felt like it weighed a _ton._ There was no way he was making a sentence, so he settled for a single word instead.

Chris stopped talking the second the piece moved. His eyes remained glued to the board as it spelled out a word. "Dead," he said finally. His face whitened and he took his hands off the pointer. "Dead? What do you mean you're dead?"

"No, he's asking us," Sam said quickly, and then said, "No Brandon, you're not dead. You're in a coma."

Oh. A coma. Well, if that was all. That made absolutely _no sense_. What, was that really supposed to clear up all his questions? 'You're walking around outside of your body but you're not dead.' Oh, how _comforting_.

"Look it's not that bad," Sam continued, as though reading his mind, "Dean was in a coma once and the whole out of body thing happened to him too. This is normal."

Chris snarled. "This is _NOT _normal!"

"Normal for this kind of…situation," Sam amended. Chris still hadn't put his hands back on the pointer so Sam asked the important question, "Are you feeling alright?"

Brandon reached forward and moved the piece to yes.

Sam nodded, calculating. "And you're not fading slowly or anything?"

Brandon slid the piece to no.

"Good," Sam said, "That's a good sign. Just remember, if you feel even _slightly _weird, you tell us. Chris is going to carry the board with him, and when he's not in the hospital _I'll _have it with me. We have more of the antidote to give you if you need it, but we don't want to just inject you with it now and have you overdose."

Brandon nodded and then realized no one could see him. He grabbed the piece and dragged it—slowly—to yes. When he released it, he felt exhausted.

Chris noticed. "Why did it move slowly that time?" he said, looking worried.

"He's probably tired," Sam said, "He's not used to moving things in the material world, since he's…"

"A ghost."

Sam nodded.

Chris tried to cover up the despair on his face. It half worked. "Okay Brandon, I want you to rest up," he said lightly, "No more talking to us for now. We're not that interesting."

Brandon reached to move the piece.

"Don't," Chris said warningly, as though he could see him.

Brandon smiled slightly and lowered his hand.

Chris picked up the board and slid it into a paper bag.

"Going to go hide somewhere?" Sam asked, "Or are you off to sign some autographs, Mr. Martin?"

"Hiding," he said, "I gotta avoid the fan clubs. I spotted a closet that looks old and unused." He stood up and walked to the door.

Brandon followed him.

"Keep in touch," Sam said as they were leaving.

Chris looked out. A few nurses were around, but they weren't paying attention to him. He shut the door to Sam's room and walked confidently down the hall.

Brandon stayed close behind him. He wasn't sure what they meant about fan clubs, and he made a note to ask later. When he wasn't invisible.

The closet was at the end of a dark corridor. Chris opened the door and looked inside, using his flashlight for light. He cringed. "Yep," he said, "That's a cockroach."

Brandon burst out laughing.

"Shut up," Chris muttered softly, guessing how his brother would react, "It's funny for _you_, they can't get _you_," he opened the door wider and slid inside. Brandon moved in behind him, and the door clicked shut.

He looked around. Paint was peeling off the walls and the shelves were covered with cobwebs. "Not exactly the penthouse suite," Brandon said out loud.

"This sucks," Chris echoed. He slid down a wall and sat with his arms on his knees. After a moment he pulled out the Ouija board and sat it face up, with the pointer in the center. "This is just in case, I don't want you using it again yet," he said. Paused. "That is, if you followed me at all. Otherwise I'm just talking to myself."

"Of course I followed you," Brandon said.

"You probably followed me," Chris added, "Yeah. I think you would follow me."

"I did."

"Just…rest up. I'll stay right here," Chris said, "Not going anywhere."

Brandon leaned against one of the shelves and shut his eyes. "Okay."

Chris stayed silent for a few minutes, eyes open in the dark. He sighed. "I really hate this," he said.

**PLEASE REVIEW! Some Dean coming up…and zombies, more Ouija boards, and…arson? haha**


	28. Not Dead Yet

**So this chapter is LONG. I just couldn't decide where to break it off, so…I didn't. It's got some of everyone in it (even Dean, for those of you who missed him last time). Good news for you, right? Think of it as a Thanksgiving present. Enjoy.**

The positive quality that small, no man's land hospitals had in common—beside the occasional rodent problem or wall cluttered with Kinkade prints—was the reduced number of patients admitted. Less townies getting into kitchen accidents or having heart attacks meant less rooms full of patients, and less patients meant less nurses and doctors employed, and _that_ meant that more nurses went home at night, which, in conclusion, meant that Sam was basically free to roam the darkened hallways at his leisure.

He wasn't really in any shape to be sneaking around in the first place, so naturally that was exactly what he was doing at two in the morning. As he limped his way down the corridor toward the ICU, he tried to identify all the people he would need to avoid; it appeared his only potential adversary was one nurse, and the giggles and moans seeping under her door indicated that she wasn't planning on doing much patrolling any time soon. Neither was her friend.

The ICU turned out to be an expansive, altogether too important looking nook filled with expensive machines and devices that could have been on an alien spacecraft in the next Stephen Spielberg film. There were only two people in that space. One was Brandon, who looked dead enough to need a coffin, and the second was Dean.

Sam crept closer to his brother's side, feeling his stitches groan with each step. He made it to the bed without collapsing and sat gingerly on the mattress.

Good. He had made it. (God only knew if he'd be able to stand up again anytime soon). Clenching his teeth, he paused to fight back the black spots invading his vision. His injuries needed to shut the hell up and deal with themselves quietly like they usually did; this was ridiculous.

When the world had righted itself again, Sam chanced another glance at his brother—annnnd looked away.

_So bad…_

"No it's not," he mumbled to himself, "It's not that bad."

He waited half a minute and looked again, forcing himself to focus long enough to actually assess how bad Dean was really doing.

He made it ten seconds before he had to either look away or puke. On his brother. He chose the former option, he didn't really think Dean would appreciate vomit dripping into his numerous open wounds.

Of course, the wounds weren't that open anymore. They had been bandaged. Freaking Imhotep had less bandages than his brother, damn it. Bring in the sarcophagus, we've got a mummy.

Sam chanced another glance—with one eye—and saw that they still had a breathing tube rammed down his throat. Wonderful. So…what? He couldn't breathe on his own? Why hadn't anyone told him that? Why hadn't anyone told him _anything_?

Screw it. He was going to kill someone.

(Just as soon as he could stand up straight. And hold a gun. And walk properly.) But yeah, then they were _really _going to get it.

Sam looked back at the door—which looked horribly far from his present position—and hissed through his teeth. His pain meds were wearing off. He couldn't really walk _with _the pain meds, so walking without them was going to be super fantastic.

Dean moved. Not much, but it was enough to kick Sam's sleepy brain back into overdrive. "Dean?" he said quietly, watching his brother again.

Dean's fingers twitched again, then curled into a fist. His eyelashes fluttered.

Sam glanced worriedly toward the door. No one was coming. He wanted someone to come, though; an intelligent doctor, perhaps, or someone that just knew all the answers.

Dean plucked frantically at his arm, snapping Sam back to the present. He turned back to his brother and gripped his hand tightly. "Hey," he said, trying to sound soothing, "You're okay." He noticed his brother's other hand snaking up to yank on his breathing tube. "Don't, Dean," he said, reaching across his body to stop him.

It was easy to stop him; too easy, like restraining a kitten. That didn't stop him from gagging, though. The breathing tube wasn't helping the situation.

"Dude, I need you to calm down," he said, slightly louder as his frustration and worry built, "It's there to breathe _for_ you. Let it breathe for you."

The beeping on his monitor got more panicked. Dean's eyes—still white and clouded—searched the area blindly for help.

Sam hadn't wanted to acknowledge the fact that his brother might not be able to hear him when he woke up, but he _had _woken up. By all observations, he couldn't hear him. Or talk to him. Or see him. Damn, it was just a kick in the gut, really. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Sure that Dean was about to give himself a heart attack for the zillionth time, Sam kicked his feet up onto the bed and lied down beside his brother. "Please relax," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as he pressed his forehead against the side of Dean's head, "Just calm down, please calm down."

He did. It didn't happen right away, but gradually Dean stopped choking and focused on letting the machine breathe for him, which was all that Sam cared about. After a few minutes, the only sound in the room was the steady beeping from the monitors and the slow whooshes of the breathing tube.

Sam didn't let go of his brother; if anything, he tightened his grip on his arm. "It's okay," he said, more for himself than for Dean, "You're going to be fine."

Despite the stabbing pain that Dean's grip had shooting up his arm, Sam wasn't moving. Not for anything. If the stupid nurse checked in, he'd stab her with a syringe. Knock her out. Something.

He burrowed his face further into Dean's neck and shut his eyes.

**SNSNSN**

Chris was sure that at least ten cockroaches were living in the closet with him. Eleven, when you counted the one that had just fallen off the ceiling.

"Damn it," he hissed, lashing out with his sneaker and managing to squash the beast. He stepped on it again for good measure, twisting it under his shoe until the guts leaked out. "Ten left," he said to the darkness.

Brandon, on the other hand, had never loved cockroaches so much in his life. It gave him something else to focus on (you know, besides being in a coma, existing as a ghost, and trying not to think too much about the situation). "Twelve," he said aloud, "There are two on that shelf over there."

He didn't get a response. He hadn't expected one.

If he didn't get to talk to someone soon he was going to go crazy.

He took a look at Chris. His brother had returned to staring at the door (longing for freedom, probably) and humming the same series of notes over and over again. Brandon recognized the song. _Seven Nation Army_, by the White Stripes.

He had been listening to him hum that song for several hours now. That was enough, really. As Chris went into another repeat, Brandon reached for the Ouija board.

The second he jiggled the piece, Chris sat back with a jolt and hit his head off the wall. "Shit—what?" he said loudly.

Brandon could have laughed. Instead, he focused on dragging the pointer toward the 'S,' a feat that was taking too much energy to accomplish.

Chris snapped to the rescue. "Hang on," he said, and leaned forward. He put a few fingers on the piece, "Does that help? I think that's how it's done."

It helped. Brandon didn't know why, but that was what he needed. He was able to move the piece more easily, though it still strained him.

"STOP," Chris read out after Brandon was finished. He sat back a little, but didn't take his hand off the pointer. "Stop what? Stop…" he trailed off, squeezed his eyes shut, "Tell me you didn't just tire yourself out telling me to stop humming."

Brandon shrugged, grinning, and dragged the piece to yes.

"You're ridiculous," Chris said, laughing, "You're supposed to be saving your strength, coma boy. Besides, that's a good song."

"WAS," Brandon spelled out, and said aloud, "You ruined it."

"Quit whining, you're fine," Chris retorted, smiling, "Now stop using this thing so you can get better." He didn't move his hand from the piece.

Brandon noticed. He moved the pointer to NO.

"You can talk to me later," he said reluctantly, "Once you're better."

NO. NOW.

Chris's face twisted. "I don't think it's a good idea," he said reluctantly, "It's not like you're in the position to speak in sentences."

Brandon reached back down and moved the pointer back and forth between 'yes' and 'no.'

Chris got it…and was still unsure of how to proceed. "Listen, I know you want to talk, but I'm sorry, I just don't think it's a good idea for you to be using this thing, and…and…" he trailed off, "Ah screw it. Are you in any pain?"

Brandon moved the piece to NO. "Can't feel anything," he said aloud, "Not anything."

"Good," Chris said relaxing a little, "And…you're not disappearing or anything, right?"

"No, I'm fine," Brandon told him, circling the piece to NO again.

Chris nodded. "Right," he said. He paused. "Of course, you'd probably say that no matter what."

Brandon blinked. "What? No I wouldn't."

"It's not like you've been honest with me much lately," Chris added, voice dropping, "About anything."

Brandon hesitated, a deer in the headlights.

"It would've helped if you had been honest..." Chris continued, more thinking aloud than anything else, "You know, since it's your fault I'm in this mess and all. At least I could've been prepared."

The words stung.

Chris opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, but removed his hand from the pointer instead. "Nevermind. That was…nevermind. Enough talking for now…just chill here for awhile; I'm going to…to…I'm going to check on Sam."

"No," Brandon said, frustrated as he watched his brother stand up, "Don't leave. I…I'm sorry...I wanted…" he trailed off as the door shut, leaving him alone in the closet. He stared at the door, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach (or what passed for one, right now). "I wanted to talk to you," he whispered.

Well, there it was, all out in the open. He'd known it was coming, really; it was amazing Chris had lasted this long without snapping. Of _course _his brother was angry at him, what with all the secrets and everything. He had screwed up. The coma wasn't helping matters, and neither was the fact that he failed miserably when it came to keeping Chris out of all this mess. His brother was right. He was in the middle of everything now, and his goal from the beginning had been to keep him safe—

Brandon kicked the pointer with as much force as he could muster. It sailed through the air and smacked against the door with a harsh crack. He leaned back, breathing hard.

He felt _exhausted,_ like he had just run five miles uphill. Not such a good idea, then. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe evenly. He wondered why he even had to breathe. It's not like he had a body...

The door slammed open, hard enough to nearly knock it off its hinges. "Brandon?"

Chris stood there, breathing like he'd sprinted back. "I'm sorry," he choked out, "Shit, I'm so sorry, Brand, I didn't mean to just leave you like that, or say that to you, I didn't mean it, hell, I have no idea why I said any of that, I'm so _sorry_—"

Brandon stared blankly at him as he strode into the small space, looking around as though he expected his brother to just materialize on a shelf.

"Are you here?" Chris said, way too loudly than was necessary, and looked down at the Ouija board. He noticed the missing piece. "Ah…okay, hang on, I'll get it," he said, dropping to his knees to look. He spotted the piece under one of the shelves, and reached through layers of dust to get it. While brushing it off, he noticed a crack. "Did you just…" he began, and stopped.

"Yep," Brandon answered numbly, "I punted the thing. Field goal."

"Damn, bro…you're not supposed to use that much energy…" he said, concerned, setting the pointer down in the middle of the board again. "I'm sorry I ran out. I wasn't thinking, I know you just wanted to talk and I…I'm not mad, none of this is your fault."

"Liar."

"I just haven't slept in a long time and you...I think that you might be dying, Brandon, and you just _can't_, you understand? You can't die."

Brandon nodded. Damn he was _tired._

"But listen," Chris continued, sitting down and gripping the pointer, "If you want to talk, I'll talk, I will. I'll talk about anything you want. _Anything_."

Brandon didn't move.

"Brandon?"

If Chris hadn't sounded so scared, Brandon didn't think he would have tried to move across the room to answer. But he did sound scared, like shaking, _run out and get help from Sam_ scared. He pulled together all the energy he had left to stretch out, reach over and drag the piece—centimeter by centimeter—to NO.

Chris's face fell. "Oh," he said.

Brandon stayed where he was, lying on the floor with half his face resting on the bottom portion of the Ouija board. He slept.

**12 Hours Later**

Sam was doing well. He had managed to get himself a new bed, right next to his brother.

When the nurse had finally gotten around to checking all her patients early in the morning—with her hair mussed up, pink lipstick smeared across her cheek, and her shirt inside out—Sam had calmly explained to her that, _gosh_, there was a lot of unused space in the ICU, and, gee, maybe if she got him a bed next to Dean, he _wouldn't _tell anyone about her late night sexual escapades.

So far, she had been _extremely _helpful. Sam was glad; puppy dog eyes only got him so far, but blackmail was as good as gold.

Since Dean was sleeping peacefully again, Sam figured that it was a good time to finish the hunt. He called Chris on his phone, and then waited for him to arrive. When he walked into the ICU, Sam looked him up and down. "You look terrible," he said disapprovingly, "Have you slept at all?"

"A little," Chris lied, glancing at Brandon's corpse like body for a moment before sitting with his back to it. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work a kink out. "I'm good. What's up?"

"How's Brandon?" Sam asked.

Chris looked down. "Uh…he's fine," he said, placing the Ouija board on the bedside table, "Tired, I think."

"It might take a while for him to wake up," Sam told him. He sensed that something was bothering Chris and decided to sidestep the issue for the moment. "So. Chris."

Chris looked up wearily. "Yeah?"

"What are your thoughts on arson?"

He paused. That wasn't what he had expected. "What?"

"Arson," Sam repeated, "You know, burning down a house."

Chris exhaled. "Did you just decide to bring this up for a fun conversation topic, or are you actually considering—"

"I'm thinking today's a good day for arson," Sam clarified with a completely straight face.

"No," Chris said simply, standing back up, "No. No way. I am drawing the line."

"Chris—"

"No way in _hell_, man! Look, I've done everything you asked so far; I have fought zombies, and helped you kill a guy, and checked you into a hospital under a fake name—and—"

"Dude, not so loud," Sam interjected.

"I will be as loud as I want, I am _not_ helping you burn down somebody's house!"

A nurse poked her head around the corner. "Everything okay in here?"

Sam gave her a million watts smile. "Yes. Thanks for asking. We're rehearsing for a play."

She gave them a stern look.

"If I might be so bold, you are looking _beautiful _today," Sam added, his smile brightening further.

She snapped her gum lazily and walked out.

"You need to stay calm, Chris."

"I am not burning a house down! If you're into that kind of thing, you do it by yourself on your own time."

"I didn't even tell you whose house I need to burn," Sam said, unable to stop from smiling at his reaction.

"I don't care," Chris said, exasperated, snatching up the board from the table, "I'm going back to the closet—"

"Nick's house," Sam said.

Chris paused, already half turned to leave. "Uh…"

"Yep," Sam said. "Nick."

"As in the guy that started all this mess?"

"That's the one."

Chris turned back around. He threw the Ouija board back onto the stand and sat on Sam's bed. "How many gas cans do you want me to get?"

"So _now_ you're interested?"

"Hell yes! Why didn't you tell me it was his house right off? I'll burn his house down, alright, and his barn, and his fucking forest."

"I don't think we need to torch the forest," Sam admonished with a smirk, "Just the house. And the barn. The zombies are still in there, and we need to get rid of them before someone stumbles in there and gets infected."

Brandon watched them as they continued their discussion on how to proceed. A sinking feeling began growing in his stomach, and he knew what was wrong. He didn't want Chris out there with zombies; Sam was still messed up pretty badly, so his brother would be doing most of the work. What if something went wrong? What if the zombies got loose? What if they couldn't control the fire?

"The hell with this," he muttered, and grabbed the pointer. He was so determined that he didn't even notice how hard it was to move this time around.

Chris noticed the piece start moving with a jerk and jumped up to the board. "Woah, hang on," he said, placing his fingers on the piece to help. He watched the pointer zoom quickly around the board, stopping on letters briefly before shooting to the next one, leaving him with:

NO. DONT GET HIM MORE INVOLVED, SAM.

Brandon sat back, breathing hard as the two men processed his statement.

Sam spoke first. "Brandon," he said, "This is just cleanup. It'll be quick."

Brandon reached out and shot the piece to NO.

"Why?" Sam asked.

Chris shot Sam an angry look. "Don't encourage him to use the board more, it tires him out—"

But Brandon was already spelling again. HES NOT LEAVING. DON'T WANT HIM AROUND MORE ZOMBIES.

"Brandon," Chris said, looking around for him, "I'll be okay. The zombies are locked up. Now stop using this board so much, you know how it drains you."

Angry now, Brandon reached for the pointer again.

Chris felt it start moving and picked the piece up off the board; held it high over his head. "You're like a damn four year old. Stop it!"

Sam winced. "Chris, _really_—"

"I just want you to get better," Chris said, ignoring him while pointing angrily at Brandon's body, "I mean…look! You look like a damn corpse."

"I'm _not_ dead," Brandon yelled at him, feeling exhausted but furious enough that it didn't matter, "I'm not dead, and you're not going. Now give me that!" he snapped, reaching for the piece.

"I'm going," Chris said calmly, like that decided it.

Brandon could have screamed in frustration. Instead, he punched his brother in the chest—stupid idea, really, since he was a _ghost_—but his fist went right through him and connected, surprisingly, with the lamp behind him.

The lamp fell backward off the stand and shattered into a dozen porcelain pieces.

That shut the three of them up.

They stood still, staring at the mess on the floor, until Sam spoke up, "Well…that's interesting."

"Did he just…do that?" Chris muttered, in disbelief.

"Well, did _you_ do it?"

"No."

"Then yeah," Sam finished, "He did."

"_What _are you doing in here?" a nurse exclaimed, hurrying into the room. She looked at the broken lamp, "Oh no. That's unacceptable, boys—"

"As unacceptable as…say…bringing your boyfriend into the hospital and banging it out with him in a patient's room while you're supposed to be on the clock?" Sam interjected slyly.

Her mouth snapped shut.

"You have a nice day, Maria," Sam said, waving.

"Clean that up," she said, the fight gone from her voice.

"Of course we will," Sam said, "Now goodbye."

She left as fast as she could. As soon as the door swung shut, Chris leaned toward Sam. "Why was he able to do that?" he asked, "Is he okay? Are you okay?" he asked, turning toward the board. He threw the pointer back down on the surface, and was relieved to see it shoot to YES.

Sam shrugged. "I don't know…Dean did something similar when he was in a coma. It might be normal, like a concentration of energy. Emotion, maybe. Or…"

"Or?"

"Or he's developing some poltergeist traits," Sam finished, "Brandon, can you try moving something else? Like that pad of paper there?"

"Okay…" Brandon said, turning to the notepad Sam was talking about. He stretched his hand out—and went through it. He turned back to the board and moved it to NO.

"What does that mean?" Chris demanded.

"I don't know," Sam admitted, watching his frustrated expression grow, "Listen Chris, it probably doesn't even matter, alright?"

Chris nodded.

"Right, so, Brandon," Sam said, addressing the air, "How 'bout this. Chris and I torch Nick's house, and you come with us."

"No!" Chris said instantly.

Brandon thought for a moment, then moved it to YES. "I'm game for that," he said. At least he'd be able to keep an eye on his brother.

"He shouldn't leave the hospital," Chris protested.

"Chris, it doesn't matter if he stays here or tours Europe," Sam said, "Being closer to his body isn't going to help anything. Besides, if he goes with us, no one gets left alone."

Chris frowned, arms crossed over his chest. "I don't know…"

Brandon reached for the board again and spelled, PLEASE?

"Oh no you don't," Chris said, rolling his eyes, "Don't even try that begging shit on me, bro."

Brandon made a face at him and kept moving the piece, spelling PLEASE over and over and over.

Chris held out a few more seconds, and then gave in. "Fine. Fine, we'll all go," he said testily, "Just stop wearing yourself out with the ghost toy."

"Good. We'll leave in an hour," Sam said, watching the piece come to an abrupt stop on the board. "You two go find my lovely nurse Maria and tell her that you'll be taking me to a diner downtown so I can get some decent food. If she objects, say something sex related and she'll come around."

"Sure, I'll get creative," Chris said. He picked up the board. "Where's your real doctor, anyway? The witch woman?"

Sam shrugged. "They told me she's off today."

"You gonna give Dean a heads up on the plan?"

Sam held up what was left of the dream root. "Yeah."

**SNSNSN**

Sam opened his eyes and found himself in his brother's dream.

At Nick's house.

Without Dean.

"Oh come _on_," he said aloud, angry. "Are we really going to do this again?"

"Do what?" Nick asked, leaning idly against the dining table beside the human ribcage. He raised one of the ribs to his lips and tore off a chunk of flesh.

"Where's Dean?" Sam demanded impatiently.

"You know," Nick said, chewing with his mouth open, "You never look thrilled to see me, Sammy." He licked a drop of blood off his thumb.

"Don't call me that."

"Dean calls you that."

"Well, yeah. He does. Cause he's _Dean_. You know who else calls me that?"

"Who?"

"No one, asshole. Now where is he?"

"What do I look like, his roommate? Life partner? I mean, hell, I _am_ attractive—you've probably noticed that—but I just don't swing that way."

"Tell me now or I'm going to kill you. Again."

"Threatening a figure in a dream? Tisk tisk, Sammy. Tisk tisk. You know what you need?" Nick said, tearing another rib off the body on the table.

"Oh, I don't know, my _brother,_" Sam hinted sarcastically.

"To be put down," Nick said.

"I think I'll pass."

"Just one bullet to the brain and…_bam_! Off to the golden fields in the sky. You can just frolic there alllllll day."

"Do I look like I frolic?"

Nick glanced him over. "Yep."

Sam growled in frustration. "Where's. Dean."

"Here, Sam," Dean said testily, charging through the archway. "I'm here."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. He stared. "What?"

"Yeah," Dean said, stopping in front of him and grabbing his arm. "Come on," he told his confused brother, and looked at Nick. "Excuse us. You follow me and I will slice off your dick and feed it to snapping turtles."

Sam found himself being dragged from the dining room. He looked back to see Nick cheerfully wave a bloody rib fragment at him and then they were gone, through the door and into the living room.

Dean let go of Sam and immediately took up pacing the room.

Sam watched him. The things he had wanted to talk through with his brother slipped from his mind and were replaced by the more pressing question at hand. "Dude…why is he still in your dream?"

Dean glared at him. "I can't make him leave," he hissed, "Every damn time I fall asleep, I'm here in this shitty house and he's here with me."

Sam couldn't help the smile that was spilling across his face. Yeah, he had found his brother. This was the Dean he had missed, and he was completely fine and pissed off and _normal._

"What's so funny, Sam?" Dean demanded, "Huh?"

Sam shook his head. Coughed. Tried to swallow his smile. "Nothing."

"Yeah, right," he shot back, pacing again, "_You _try spending hours trapped with this guy. I've killed him so many times it's nauseating. I've stabbed, shot and roasted the bastard. I've doused him in hot glue, blasted him with fireworks, dropped him into a pit of alligators—"

"Alligators?" Sam repeated.

"Yeah Sam, alligators. Thirty foot mutated alligators—"

"Oh, _mutated _alligators. My mistake."

"He won't _leave_, Sam," Dean ranted, throwing himself down on a couch, "He keeps coming back to life. And he's _cheerful _about it."

"Oh, god no," Sam said, all seriousness gone from his voice now, "Not _cheerful_."

Dean glared at him. The glare was so focused and terrible that a small plant behind Sam wilted and died from exposure.

Sam just laughed. "You're crazy," he said, sitting next to him.

"Am not."

"Uh…yeah."

"Shut it, Sam."

"You know, I had no idea your imagination was so…inventive. I mean, killing the guy with hot glue? Really?"

"What, you think it's inhumane? The freak was _zombifying_ people. You telling me you wouldn't give it a shot?"

"True. How'd it turn out?"

"Before or after his face melted?"

"Both. Sounds fantastic. Was he screaming?"

"Like a girl."

"Damn," Sam said, "I feel cheated."

They both fell silent, leaning back on the couch. Half a minute passed.

"Well," Dean said finally, trying to keep his voice light, "I can't hear anything out there."

"Guessed as much," Sam said.

"And man…the breathing tube? It sucks."

"They said they'd remove it tomorrow," Sam told him reassuringly, "I already told them about that, they said they wanted to play it safe…you know, cause of all the injuries and infection and stuff."

Dean shrugged. "Well they damn well better take it out soon, or I'll rip it out myself."

"No you won't."

"I will."

"Won't."

"_So _totally will."

"You…" Sam said, and stopped. "Okay, fine. I know you'd do it. Just, man, for the love of god just leave it alone."

"I will," Dean said. He paused. "Until tomorrow."

Sam chuckled. "You suck."

"Yeah," Dean said, "I know."

They fell silent again. Sam tapped his foot restlessly against the scuffed up coffee table. "So," he said finally, "Chris and I are going to torch Nick's house to get rid of all the zombies."

Dean looked at him. "When?"

Sam checked his watch, realized he wasn't wearing one, and shrugged. "Less than an hour."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Nice warning there, Sammy."

"Thanks."

"You're really healed enough for that?"

"Well, Chris will probably do most of the heavy lifting…and running around. I'll probably just tell him what to do…that and make sure Brandon's alright."

"Brandon? He's up?"

"Uh, no, he's still invisible and using the Ouija board to talk to us—"

"Even freaking _coma boy _can talk to you," Dean interrupted bitterly.

"But he threw a fit when I said Chris was going," Sam said over him, "Knocked over a lamp. So I said he could tag alone."

"He knocked over a lamp?"

"Oh yeah, it's _Paranormal Activity_ out there," Sam said wryly, "Anyway, we should be gone for most of the evening, so try to—you know—stay alive."

"For most of the evening? Damn Sam, that's a long time, I don't know if I can manage."

Sam glared at him. "Not funny."

Dean slapped him on the back. "Lighten up, I'll be fine," he said, "But dude, you need to get more dream root when you're at his house."

"Why would I do that, when you have _Nick _to talk to?" Sam goaded him, "That guy is always the life of the party."

"You wouldn't," Dean said.

"Well…"

"No way. Admit it. You miss talking to me."

"Well…"

"Damn it, Sam, you leave me stuck inside my head with that freak and I'll…I'll…"

"You'll what?"

"I'll gouge your eyes out."

Sam laughed. "What? How?"

"Hey, I may be deaf, blind, and mute out there," Dean said smugly, "But I can still move my arms."

"To gouge my eyes out?"

He snapped his fingers. "Bingo."

Sam shook his head, still laughing. "You have _issues_, man," he said.

"If you'd rather, I can just sic my mutated alligators on you."

"_Serious_ issues," Sam concluded. He paused, leaned back. "I _guess _I'll grab more dream root. Since you asked."

"Cause you weren't going to get it anyway," Dean teased him.

"Maybe," Sam said. He crossed his arms. "And…after we get back from torching Nick's place, I'm going to give you another dose of the antidote…you know, since you're doing so…"

"Bad?"

Sam shrugged. "No, you're not…I mean…I'd rather give it to you now than wait and have you get worse, you know?"

Dean bumped his shoulder. "I'm not going to get worse, remember?"

"Right," Sam said, "Of course you're not."

**Please REVIEW! **


	29. Burning Down the House

**As always, thank you for the reviews! Here's another chapter…it's also long. You're welcome. Oh, and when Brandon says things in this chapter, the others can't hear him. Because he's a ghost. Just thought I'd point that out, cause I didn't want to have to put "but no one could hear him" after everything he said. :) **

"There's too much blood in here, man. It smells like a slaughter house. It looks like someone was gutted and bled dry. This is _sick_."

"Don't even remind me," Sam said, grimacing, "Dean's gonna _kill_ me."

Chris adjusted his sleeves again so that they were covering his hands completely as he gripped the wheel. The steering wheel looked like it had been painted a crusty brown. He groaned as another fleck of blood peeled off onto his jacket. He still had a couple miles to go before reaching Nick's house, and he couldn't get there fast enough. "You don't have AIDS, do you?"

Sam glared at him. He kept his hands squarely in his lap to avoid touching any of the blood. He knew it was all his, and somehow that just made it all the more creepy. "No."

A pause. "Have you been tested?"

"Have _you_?" Sam questioned him tensely.

"No…" Chris said, sticking his head half out the broken window just so he could get some fresh air, "But I didn't bathe a car in _my _blood."

"It's not that much blood," Sam protested as Chris turned down Nick's street. "You're just squeamish."

"No, he's right," Brandon broke in—unheard—from the backseat. "There's blood sprayed back here too. It's disgusting."

"It's caked down in the vents," Chris complained.

Sam made a face. "I know, I know."

"Remember when the guy got his head shot off in _Pulp Fiction_? Well, the car looks like that, only…like…ten times worse. That's just _sad_."

"Agreed," Brandon said.

"Okay Chris, I get it, I'm screwed," Sam giving in, "Dean's going to murder me. I _know_. Just hurry up and get to Nick's house—there. Turn here, this is the house."

Chris obediently turned the wheel, trying to ignore how much dried blood was sticking to his sleeves. "Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew—"

"For god's sake, man," Sam erupted, "You're a _doctor_. You deal with blood all the time."

"_Ew_," Chris said again, louder and with emphasis, "Ew, ew, _shit, _ew—" he trailed off, throwing the Impala into park and raising his hands high into the air.

Brandon couldn't help it. He started laughing, hard.

"Okay," Chris said slowly, "I'm going to _try_ to open the door. The handle looks like it's been oozing blood for a few days, so I don't know if I'll survive the encounter."

And just like that, Sam realized what Chris was doing. He glanced in the rearview mirror to the backseat—where he knew Brandon was sitting—and smiled. "I'm sure you'll be fine," he said to Chris.

"Don't let yourself be lulled into false security, Sam," Chris said, eyeing the handle like it was a live snake, "I think we might have to burn the Impala too. It's probably haunted."

"Haunted?" Brandon snorted, so wrapped up in the show his brother was putting on that he forgot to keep worrying about whether he was dying and how he was supposed to wake up from his coma. "You're a real nutcase."

"Haunted by _what_, exactly?" Sam said, opening his door, "It's my blood."

"And by the look of it, half of you is dead and buried in this old piece of junk," Chris continued, getting out. He kicked the door shut and made a show of rubbing his sneaker in the dirt to get all the blood off before walking around to the trunk. He unlocked it and started unloading the gas cans.

"I wouldn't let Dean hear you say that."

"Oh?"

"The car's his baby. They're in a very serious relationship," Sam said, going around the back and watching him unload.

"Has he proposed?"

"Not yet, no," Sam said, seriously.

"Well damn, no wonder the poor gal's started bathing in the blood of virgins. Doesn't he know that every kiss begins with Kay?"

Brandon snorted. "Nah, bro, it's every kiss begins with a couple shots of tequila," he said, and sighed heavily, "Man I could use a good makeout session."

Chris got the last of the cans out of the trunk and shut the hatch. He looked up at the house, and the mirth in his eyes faded slightly.

Sam noticed. "Ready to play with fire?" he said, keeping his tone light.

Chris snapped out of it. "Absolutely," he said, picking up two of the cans. As he walked, he brainstormed new topics that might keep his brother distracted from...life. Because life pretty much sucked at the moment. "You know, speaking of jewelry commercials—"

"Random much?" Sam interjected, following him to the porch.

"You have no idea, Sam," Brandon said, "You should hear him on poker nights."

"No, it applies," Chris said defensively, "I mean, I've got a girlfriend. We're pretty serious. And all the damn jewelry commercials are about fluffy shit like kissing in front of Christmas trees and football players talking about diamonds and girls saying 'hold me, I'm scared, it's thundering outside.' You know what? That's unrealistic bullshit, that is."

"Too true," Sam said, grinning. He pointed to the bottom of the staircase. "Just start dousing everything, will you?"

"No problem," Chris said. He began pouring gas on the stairs, the carpet, under the table. "You know what would make a realistic jewelry commercial?"

"What?" Brandon said.

"No idea," Sam said.

"Proposing in front of a burning house," Chris said.

"Uhh…I don't think that'll be good for marketing."

"No, hear me out," Chris said, going out for more cans, "Picture it. The guy brings the girl to the site of the burning building and gets down on one knee and says—"

"Ah come off it," Sam laughed.

"Don't interrupt!" Chris said, heaving more cans back to the house, "He says, Sugar Pie, I love you. I love you so much that, to prove the depths of my devotion, I burned your idiot boss's house down just for you. When we make love, our passion will burn hotter than these flames. Will you marry me?"

"Wow," Brandon said.

"That's how I plan to propose," Chris said to Sam, dumping more gas, "You know, in five or so years. It'll be super romantic."

"Oh, I bet," Sam replied. He paused. "We should probably pour some in the basement."

"No problem."

Sam walked to the open basement door and flipped the switch. The naked bulb at the base of the steps flickered twice and then stayed on, and he trudged his way down. "I'm going to find some dream root, you go crazy with the gasoline…" he paused. A girl was standing in the middle of the floor, staring at him.

Half of her face was ripped off. He could see her teeth jutting out from bleeding gums.

The trapdoor was open.

_Shit._

How many zombies had Nick said were down underneath the floor? _Had_ he revealed that? It couldn't be just one girl, that was for sure.

Chris spotted her and jerked to a stop, halfway down. Very, very slowly, he picked his foot back up and placed it on the previous step up. And the next. And the next. Eventually he reached the top of the stairs and looked around, his heart pounding furiously in his chest. The house—which had seemed harmless enough a few moments ago—now appeared darker and more sinister. The trapdoor was open. The basement door had been open_._ The damn things could be anywhere in the house.

Brandon stood halfway down the staircase, wide eyed as he watched Sam. The younger Winchester hadn't yet made a decision on what action to take. He had his pistol in hand, but firing would alert every walking freak to their position. Sam inched his way closer to the shelf. Brandon knew what he was going for. He wanted the dream root.

The girl's eyes tracked his every movement.

Brandon looked back up at his brother. Chris hadn't moved; he was just staring around like the darkness was going to jump out at him. It just might, after all.

This was _exactly _what he had been worried about in the first place. They should never have walked back inside the house. It was a stupid idea. So, so stupid.

Sam reached the shelf and stretched out a hand, silently grabbing a bottle of dream root. The glass made a clinking sound as he picked it up, and he slowly—_slowly—_slid it into his jacket pocket.

Against all the luck that Sam didn't have, she still didn't move.

His pocket full, Sam lowered his hand and stepped back. One step, then two, then three, until he was at the base of the staircase. Then, holding his breath, he stepped back onto the bottom step.

It creaked.

The girl shrieked. Her mouth widened, splitting open to amplify the sound, and she ran.

Sam fired, catching her right between the eyes. She dropped.

"Run!" Chris shouted at him.

Sam did run, but not before he heard additional screams chorusing from beneath the open trapdoor. He made it to the top and slammed the heavy wooden door shut. "We have to go," he said, grabbing Chris's arm. Something snarled into his ear, and he turned just in time to see the bulk of a man rounding the corner, fingernails flashing in the light. He fired, and the guy fell. "Come on!"

Chris dropped the gas can and bolted with Sam still holding onto his arm. They made it through the living room and into the dining room when Chris stopped suddenly. "Wait," he said suddenly, "Where's Brandon? He's—"

"I'm fine," Brandon snapped, "Come on!"

Sam paused to catch his breath. He could feel his stitches throbbing from the mistreatment."Brandon doesn't have a body," he wheezed, stepping ahead toward the door, "You're the one in trouble, now _move_."

Chris swallowed hard, then turned to follow Sam—but something snatched his ankle. Thrown off-balance, he fell, and when he hit the hardwood floor he came eye to eye with…something. It was a zombie, but it had decayed so much that he couldn't tell what kind of person it had been. There was barely enough skin to stretch over its skull, and it pulled his ankle closer to its teeth with long, bony fingers.

"No!" Brandon cried, "Chris, no!"

"Shit shit shit _shit_!" Chris kicked out, trying to knock it back.

Sam was several yards away when he heard Chris fall. He pulled his gun up…and hesitated. There was too much gasoline everywhere; it puddled on the floor and soaked into the zombie's tattered clothes. All it would take was a little spark… "I can't fire—knock it back!" he shouted at him. As he watched, another figure staggered into the dining room. It caught sight of Chris.

Frantic, Chris kicked out again and again, knocking the zombie's head back. Its neck snapped, but that didn't seem to matter. The thing was unnaturally strong, and it kept its iron grip on his ankle and pulled his skin closer, closer—

"No!" Brandon shouted. Without thinking, he reached down and grabbed for his brother's shoulders, and (for the first time in days) he could feel his brother's cotton jacket, could feel his fingernails digging into Chris's shoulders—

He didn't question it, just yanked back as hard as he could. The force, combined with another kick from Chris, was enough to tug him away from the zombie and back against the hideous wallpaper with a smack.

Sam watched as Chris was—seemingly—flung backward across the room, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. He was already moving past him, and he slashed through the second zombie's neck with a clean swoop of his knife. The body fell to the floor, twitching. He bent over, pain from numerous wounds making themselves known again, and peered into the hall. Eyes glinted from the shadows, and he could make out zombies crawling toward them. "Come on," he boomed, grabbing for Chris's arm.

Brandon was already pulling him up, straining to get him to the door.

Chris tried to keep his footing. He didn't have a clue what was happening, but he knew he needed to get out. He stayed beside Sam as they ran from the house and out into the afternoon air. "Burn it!" he cried, pushing Sam off of him and pointing toward the house, "Do it now!"

Sam was already digging through his pocket, eyes narrowed. "Come on…come on…"

"Where are the damn matches?" Chris moaned, watching the first figure stumble from the house.

"I have them," Sam snapped back. He could feel blood dripping down his hand; he had torn his stitches. Shit. He switched hands, trying to feel for the little box. Which pocket had it been in? Had he dropped it? As the third zombie crawled its way across the threshold, his fingers closed around the small cube.

"Come on!" Chris yelled.

Sam tore it out of his pocket. "Here, I can't feel my fingers, you do it—" he said, pressing the now bloody box into Chris's hands.

Chris shook his head furiously. "I'm covered with gasoline," he shot back, holding up his drenched coat sleeve as proof.

Brandon swore. Testing his luck, he reached for the box in his brother's hand. He could feel it. Thank you Jesus, he could feel it. He snatched the box from his startled brother and darted forward away from them toward the house, fumbling with the matches as he ran.

"Wait!" Chris yelled, stepping forward.

Sam grabbed onto his sleeve with his good hand and held on. "Don't! You light those matches now and you'll be a human torch—"

Still walking, Brandon swiped a match across the box and, as it flamed, tossed it forward onto the gasoline slicked porch. Flames erupted, spraying back across the wood and into the house. His mouth fell open. Zombies squealed, hands flailing as they darted forward. One of them stumbled right through him—he flinched and dropped the rest of the matches.

"Brandon!" Chris screamed, struggling against Sam's hold, "Let me go damn it, let me go! It was him, I know it was!"

Sam's injuries screamed one final time and gave out; he couldn't hold him. All at once he lost his grip and fell backward, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He watched as Chris darted toward the house.

Chris didn't make it there. Before he could take five strides he ran headlong into something solid—and invisible. The blow knocked him off his feet, and he landed on the grass, stunned. "What…"

"Idiot," Brandon snapped at him (still unheard). He grabbed the back of his brother's jacket and hauled him upright. He half pulled him back to Sam, who was already climbing into the passenger side seat in the Impala.

Something inside the house exploded, and all the windows shattered outward.

"Go!" Brandon said, shoving his brother into the car door and darting inside himself.

Chris glanced up. The house was a flaming inferno, pouring black smoke into the sky. Hay strewn outside the barn was already smoldering, and it was only a matter of time before the barn caught as well.

"Come on!" Sam yelled.

Chris opened the door and slammed the key into the ignition. Then, hitting the gas so hard that the wheels spun and smoked, he drove the Impala out of the driveway and onto the road at total disregard for the speed limit. "What…what just…"

"I don't know," Sam said, looking back. He could still see the flames.

"But he just…" Chris sputtered, and then abruptly turned his head to search the backseat, "Brandon—"

"Watch the damn road!" Sam roared, grabbing the steering wheel and turning it sharply so that they didn't crash into a pole.

"What?" Chris said, looking out the front windshield again.

Brandon reached forward, grabbing his brother's arm tightly. "I'm here, bro. Calm down," he said helplessly.

"Stop the car," Sam demanded.

Chris felt his brother squeeze his arm and, instead of calming down, panicked. "Why the hell can he touch things now? Is that normal? He shouldn't be using that much energy, it'll kill him—"

"I'm fine, please _stop_," Brandon said, watching the speedometer climb.

"Chris you're going to _kill us_," Sam yelled over the engine, "Stop!"

"But he—he had the matches, and the zombies—the _fire_—"

"Stop the car, Chris."

"What if he's dying? You don't know!"

"Stop the car!"

"But—"

"Stop the car _NOW_!"

Chris screamed and slammed his foot down on the break. The Impala screeched to a long halt, leaving black tire marks stretched across the pavement, until it came to a stop in the middle of the road.

They jerked back in their seats and went silent, gasping for air.

Sam's hands were up on the dashboard, bracing him. He lowered them, very slowly. "Okay," he said, sounding strangled, "Okay. That was good."

Chris, unable to bring himself to say anything, nodded.

Brandon still had one hand latched around his brother's arm. "Chris?" he whispered, staring at him wide-eyed, "Chris, it's alright. You…you need to calm down." As he spoke he moved his second arm so that it was also clasped onto Chris's shoulder, beyond confused as to what had happened. He could feel the seat beneath him, could smell the blood. It was like he was _in _the world again, not just observing it. The change was freaky, yeah, but it didn't scare him as much as confuse the hell out of him.

Chris didn't calm. He turned abruptly in his seat and reached out until his fingertips hit Brandon's arms and chest. "Oh god. What the hell did you do?"

"Me?" Brandon shot back, aware that he was only talking for himself, "Why's it always have to be my fault?"

Still wincing and bleeding on the seat (_again_) Sam reached back as well. He gripped Brandon's arm for a moment and then let go, turning back around. "He's fine," he said.

"Bullshit," Chris said, his fingers moving up to rustle his brother's short hair, "He can't be fine. He could barely move a small triangle of plastic yesterday without passing out."

"So what?" Brandon said. He grabbed Chris's wrist and squeezed, stopping him from moving further. "Stop freaking."

Sam grunted in pain and opened his door.

"What are you doing?" Chris demanded, momentarily distracted as he watched Sam get out of the car. "You…" he paused, "Damn you look awful."

Sam made his way around the car to the driver's side. He opened Chris's door and leaned heavily on it. "Get out," he said wearily.

Chris blinked. "What?"

"Get in the back with Brandon," Sam said, "We need to get as far away from that fire as possible before the cops show."

Chris stared at him, his brain hurrying to catch up. "But…I'm driving."

"No, you just lost that privilege," Sam said lightly, "When I die, I want it to be for doing something notable, like saving all the children in an orphanage from demons or shapeshifters or a pack of werewolves. What I _don't_ want to do is die in a fiery car crash. Especially not in the Impala."

"Oh…" Chris said, wincing, "Sorry. I guess I just…sorry."

"It's fine. Just get in the back."

"Okay," Chris said. He started to move but stopped when he felt Brandon's grip loosen. "No."

Sam frowned, but when he looked at Chris, it didn't even take a second to recognize what was wrong. His expression softened. "Brandon's fine," he said slowly, "He's going to wait in the backseat for you. Now move back."

He moved. Quickly.

After they were all safely buckled in, Sam eased the Impala back into drive and—feeling his muscles groan and pull with every movement—maneuvered her down the deserted road at a pace that did not imply that they were attempting light speed.

"Sam?" Chris said after a moment.

Sam sighed. He glanced back in the mirror. "What?" he said shortly.

"You're bleeding on the car again."

**SNSNSN**

**Two weeks later…**

"He's doing much, much better. It's a damn near miracle, kid."

Sam nodded at his doctor. He tapped his fingers on his arm and peered past her into Dean's hospital room, where his brother was currently sitting up and eating his less than desirable lunch of a soggy apple and some wheat bread. "I know," he said.

The ugly woman shook her head. Her wig moved from side to side with the motion. "No, boy, you do not hear me," she said with emphasis, "It is a _miracle._"

"Yeah," Sam said, looking away from his brother, "I get that. I really do."

"His hearing is okay. The boy can see shapes, no? I give him a little longer till he's good as new. What did you say he does for a living? "

"I didn't. Look, he still can't talk," Sam added, lowering his voice, "Is that normal? Shouldn't he be talking by now?"

She shrugged, and the fat on her neck jiggled. "I thought he'd be dead by now."

Sam shut his eyes. "Thank you for that."

"Yes, you're welcome, boy," she continued, impervious to his sarcasm, "When he came in to the ER, I took one look and nearly pronounced the time of death. But he did not die."

"No," Sam said, running a hand over his face, "He didn't."

"He's stubborn. So I said to Tina, the receptionist, 'I give dead looking kid three days, tops.'"

"How kind of you."

"Not kind, _observant_. Anyway, she disagreed."

"Did she?"

"Yes. She said he'd only last an hour or two more. We bet on it. Fifty dollars."

"Well good for you," Sam said, opening his eyes back up and making his voice overly cheery, "You won that one, didn't you? Listen, I need to be going."

"Alright," she said, already turning away, "I need to check on coma kid, anyway. Even though he's never going to wake up, if you ask me."

"I didn't," Sam said.

"I thought you did."

"No."

"I really think you did—"

"I didn't!" Sam said, unable to supress his anger any longer. Then, before she could say anything else, he threw Dean's door open and strode inside. "Hey, bro," he said lightly.

Dean was already looking in his direction, eyes open, eyebrow raised.

"The witch is being…witchy again," Sam said brightly in explanation of his mood swings, "I hope she gets hit by a meteor and dies."

Dean motioned for him to sit down.

Sam sat. He twisted a bit in the plastic chair until he could pretend he was comfortable and then folded his hands. "So…" he said.

Dean tossed his apple core right into the metal can at the base of his bed. He shook his head.

_Damn._ Still no talking, then. Sam smiled, trying not to show how worried he was. "Oh. Look man, it doesn't matter. I'm sure you will…you know…soon."

Dean's expression soured.

"Besides," Sam continued, "Your sight's getting clearer, right? And…and I don't have to shout anymore for you to hear me. I'm just talking normally. That's a good sign."

If looks could kill, Dean's would have had Sam bleeding out on the floor.

Sam sighed. "Right," he said helplessly, "I'm shutting up. Sorry."

Dean's expression softened. He opened his mouth (out of habit, really) and then shut it quickly. He looked away. _Sorry Sam…_

**SNSNSN**

"No," Chris spat through his teeth at his brother's doctor, "Absolutely _not_."

"Honey…this is always hard for folks. You have to understand there's no brain activity—"

"Yes. There. Is," Chris said firmly, staring down the same hideous, nearly toothless woman that Sam had to deal with every day.

She looked up at the monitor. "No…o…o…o…" she said slowly, "I'm pretty sure there isn't."

"Yeah, well, there will be soon, okay?" he spat back at her. He could feel Brandon's hand wrapped tightly around his elbow, and that was the only thing stopping him from leaping forward and pounding her into the floor.

She smiled. "Young man…I'm sorry. You have been so wonderful, staying here with him, even without any sort of previous ties. It just breaks my heart."

"I bet it does."

"But all I'm saying is that you're _not _his family. We still haven't been able to locate them, after all. We don't even know his _name._"

"So what? He'll tell you when he wakes up."

"The only thing keeping his body alive is the machine."

Chris flinched and stepped forward. "No, man," Brandon hissed, clinging to him, "Don't hit her; you'll get thrown out."

Unable to hear his brother, Chris could only guess at what he was saying. His ironclad grip was a good indication, though, and he managed to stop before slugging her. Barely. "What are you saying?" he hissed at her.

"I'm saying…" she began, and stopped. She scratched at a large boil on her face. "He's brain dead and doesn't have a family," she said flatly, apparently deciding not to dodge the issue any longer, "The higher-ups have been considering pulling the plug."

Chris stared. "What?"

Brandon pulled back on him. "No, no, no, don't attack her—"

She saw the look in his eye and began backing up to the door. "I'm sorry. That's a lot to take in, I imagine, I'll just go. You know, leave you to think things over."

"You want to let him _die_?" Chris demanded.

"Bye now," she said hurriedly, and ducked out the door.

They stared after her.

Chris was about to throw up. His brother's heart monitor made his throat tighten with every beep, and he clenched his teeth together. "Closet. Now," he said, and strode from the room.

Brandon jogged to keep up with his brother as he made his way to the closet he had basically been living in for the last few weeks. When they were inside Chris plucked his laptop off a shelf and turned it on, all the while muttering a plethora of swear words directed toward the doctor.

As soon as the laptop was open to Microsoft Word, Brandon leaned over the keyboard and typed, "It's not that bad."

"Don't you even try that!" Chris exploded, his fingers balled up into fists at his sides, "Don't calm me down. I'm not going to calm down. Not now. And what the hell do you mean, this isn't bad? If this isn't bad, what is? This is...this is so far beyond bad, it's...it's...that bitch wants to kill you!"

"I know, okay, I heard. But at least talk quieter, someone's gonna hear you."

"Quieter? Quieter?" Chris said, laughing helplessly, "You want me to be…okay. Fine. How's this? Huh? How 'bout this?"

Brandon wondered if his brother was finally having a breakdown. "Breathe," he typed.

"Oh, I'm breathing. I am. _You're _the one that isn't!"

Frowning, Brandon reached up and grabbed onto his brother's arm. He tugged on it, forcing Chris to stop pacing and sit beside him on the floor.

Chris shivered.

Brandon pulled back his arm. "Sorry. Where's your jacket?"

"I left it back in your room," Chris muttered, his voice finally lowered, "It's okay. You're not that cold."

Even so, Brandon sat back farther away from him. He paused, the keyboard on his lap, unsure of what to say.

"Brand…you _have _to wake up," Chris said pleadingly, "You have to."

"I keep trying. I can't," he typed back, pounding the keys harder than necessary out of frustration.

"Try harder."

"I don't know what you want me to do. I've tried everything I can think of. I've tried everything _Sam _could think of. Nothing works."

"Brandon, they are going to _kill _you," Chris said, staring in his direction, "I can't damn well tell them that I know you've got brain activity because you're a ghost and you've been communicating with me. And I can't…I can't tell them not to do it because to them I'm…I'm nobody. I've been posing as a complete stranger for over two weeks; I can't exactly jump out now and say that I'm really your little brother."

"I know."

"Well what the hell are we supposed to do, then?"

"I DON'T KNOW," Brandon pounded out, frowning. He sat back, glaring at Chris when his expression didn't change. "I said I don't know!" he said out loud, glaring at him, "What do you want me to say? I don't know everything. You think you're the only one that's upset? I'm freaking out too, you know! Freaking. Out."

Chris (unaware that his brother was yelling at him) read the short sentence he had written and groaned. "Great," he snapped, "Just…just great." He took another look at the page and paused. "Do the all caps mean you're shouting now?"

Brandon hesitated. "Maybe," he typed.

"Oh," Chris said, "Look…I know you're just as clueless as me about this."

"I've never been in a coma before."

Chris looked up at where he thought his brother was. "Yeah. I know. I'm sorry I keep freaking out at you. I don't…I don't mean to, but this is bad and I don't know what to do. I don't like not knowing. We need a plan."

Brandon watched his brother's crestfallen expression and hesitated before typing anything else. Getting an idea, he hit the caps lock key again. "I KNOW WE DO. I GUESS I FORGIVE YOU THIS TIME."

Chris's eyebrows narrowed. "You're…still shouting?" he asked, looking confused.

Brandon smirked. "MAYBE. MAYBE NOT. EVERYTHING I TYPE SOUNDS MORE EPIC THIS WAY THOUGH, DOESN'T IT?"

Chris almost laughed. "I don't know about that."

"TO BE, OR NOT TO BE, THAT IS THE QUESTION."

"You've got to be kidding me…"

"I DO NOT KID, IDIOT MORTAL."

"You're the idiot mortal," he shot back, rolling his eyes.

"SHUT IT. NOW LISTEN. YOU HAVE TWO CHOICES…..YOU CAN EITHER TAKE THE RED PILL, OR THE BLUE PILL."

Chris leaned back against a shelf and smiled, finally calm and breathing levelly. "How 'bout a headache pill? You got one of those?"

"NO. HEADACHES ARE FOR THE WEAK."

"Really? Cause I seem to remember you getting headaches allllll the time, man."

"YOU ARE MISTAKEN. I AM TOO AWESOME TO GET HEADACHES."

"Doubt it," Chris said. He hesitated before saying anything else, and his expression fell back to his normal worried look.

Brandon groaned. So much for that idea. He turned off the caps lock. "You started thinking again, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Chris said, "I did."

"You need to stop that."

"You need to stop distracting me."

Brandon shook his head. "It's my job to distract you…otherwise you'd get super high blood pressure and explode."

"Well, at least we'd be in a hospital," he said. He thought for a moment, "We need to figure out what to do. They can't kill you…I won't let them pull the plug."

"I know that."

"I know you know," Chris snapped, "But how the hell are we—damn it. I'm yelling at you again—sorry," he said.

"That's okay."

Chris reached up and pulled a bottle of Tylenol off the shelf. He popped a couple in his mouth and swallowed them dry. "We need to talk to Sam," he said.

**SNSNSN**

Sam woke up in Dean's dream to find that he was at Nick's house, again. Nick was busy cooking something up in the kitchen and Dean was, of course, not there.

"Hi," Sam told him simply, more out of routine than anything else.

"Hey there, Sammy," Nick said enthusiastically, turning around. He had a bright pink oven mitt on one hand and was holding a long bloody butcher knife in the other, "Haven't seen you here in a while."

"Yeah," Sam said, "I know. Where's Dean?"

"Sam?"

He turned to see Dean walking into the kitchen, confused eyes locked on him.

"Hey," he said.

"What are you…" Dean said, and stopped. "You said you were out of dream root a while ago."

"I know. I saved a little bit…for later."

"Later? You mean now?" Nick spoke up, turning back around and stabbing at something on the counter. "Ohhhh you mean cause Dean's freaking out—"

"No one's freaking out. We're leaving now," Sam spoke out, striding from the room as he spoke.

"Aw, but you'll miss the special meal…I make one hell of a grilled heart. It's delicious—"

The door swung shut behind them, cutting the delusion off before he could say anything else.

**Please Review! Thanks. :)**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sadly, this story is coming to an end pretty soon. :( Probably only a few chapters are left, especially if I keep making them so long. I've got an idea for my next story (I wanted to try something new and interactive) but would appreciate knowing if any of you are interested, so I've made a POLL on my profile page. If you could take a few seconds to answer it, that would be great. Thanks a bunch!**


	30. Escape

**Hello everyone. Sorry for the long wait! This chapter would not cooperate at first, and then Christmas happened (Merry Christmas guys!) which threw me off track again. But (again) this chapter is really, really long. Longer than the last one, even. So enjoy! **

Sam was in trouble, and he knew it. It wasn't that he had actually screwed anything up (he was surprisingly in the clear as far as that went). He was in trouble because Dean was in one of those moods he had long ago deemed explosive and therefore should be avoided at all costs, unless of course you enjoyed getting punched. He'd been that way for days; pissed off because he was stuck in the hospital, restless because he wasn't back to normal, livid because he couldn't talk. Sam had learned long ago that messing with his agitated older brother was about as fun as poking a grizzly in the forehead with a stick.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean protested as soon as the door to the kitchen was shut, "I'm fine."

"Oh, I know that," Sam lied, making his voice as light as it could without sounding forced.

_Poke…poke…poke…poke…_

Dean didn't go for it. "You know? Then why are you here?" he demanded, pointing an accusing finger at Sam, "Cause let me tell you, that damn delusion out there in the kitchen doesn't know what he's talking about, got it? I'm not freaking out."

Sam groaned inwardly and said something noncommittal in response as he prepared himself for a rant—a long, _long_, heated rant. Dean hadn't actually talked to anyone since the small bottle of dream root had run out (not counting the mouthful Sam had saved for this very occasion) a week ago. That meant he had spent seven days angry, in pain, and (for the most part) unable to communicate.

Forget the bear. Sam might as well have been trying to talk to a nuclear bomb.

"Why'd you save some of the dream root?"

"I just…did," Sam said, shrugging, "I figured it might be a good idea to make sure I could—"

"You wanted to make sure I'm still not a mental case, didn't you?"

_Oh yeah, Dean. That's it. Surprise! I'm such a wonderful little brother that I'd just toss you in a psych ward. Come on man, you know me better than that. _"You're not a mental case," Sam said instead, resigning himself to the notion that Dean's mood was probably going to twist everything he said.

"Right. Of course not," Dean said as he paced to the other side of the room, "I guess it slipped your mind that my brain is shot, huh? That Bobby guy you keep talking about? I still have _no _idea who the hell he is."

Sam fought to keep his expression neutral as his disappointment flared. He _had _expected Dean to remember Bobby by now."You'll remember," he said lamely.

"When? Next month? Next _year_? I don't remember _anyone_."

"You remember me."

"Of _course _I remember you," Dean snapped, "You're…you. I wouldn't forget _you_."

Sam's gut churned. "Dean—"

"And for god's sake, would it kill you to bring me edible food? The hospital doesn't serve food. It serves boiled shit."

"I _do_ bring you food," Sam said, "I sneak burgers and pie and all kinds of artery clogging stuff in to you. The nurses all hate me, dude. They keep telling me I'm killing you."

"Pffft," Dean said dismissively, "We're talking about my starvation here, not your golden boy reputation."

"I'm _sorry_," he said exasperatedly, spreading his arms wide, "I'll bring you something dripping with grease tomorrow."

"I'm out of movies," Dean said, switching topics nearly as quickly as he could draw a breath, "And the only damn thing on the damn miniature tv is a damn news channel and the damn shopping network. Today they were selling tiny cake pop grills and these mystical leggings designed to slim any figure by two dress sizes."

"Dean—"

"_Two dress sizes_, Sam. Does it look like I'm the kind of guy that needs to know about dress sizes or…or freaking tiny ass deserts?"

"I don't think—"

"I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

"I'll bring you more movies. Just tell me what you want and I'll get it," Sam pleaded, not just talking about the movies anymore.

"Tell you?" Dean repeated, looking a little like he might explode. "I can't _tell you_, Sam! I can't say anything._"_

_Ah hell. _"I meant _now_," Sam amended quickly, "Just…just tell me now."

"Whatever," Dean said dismissively, turning away to the window, "I don't need you to bring me anything, and I certainly don't need you here now. Got it? I'm fine. I am doing perfectly fine dealing with this on my own, and I don't need you to barge into my dream and try to make me feel better. Dreams are personal. Did it occur to you that I might _not_ want you in my head?"

_He doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it. _Sam took a breath. "Sorry."

"You…you should be," Dean said, growing more upset at Sam's calm responses than anything else, "Cause I'm not freaking out."

"I got it, Dean. You're not freaking out," Sam said softly.

"Don't you…don't patronize me!"

Sam cringed. "I'm _not_."

"You are. You're using that tone."

"What tone?"

"What tone?" Dean sputtered, "The…the one that you…_your tone_, damn it! The one that you use."

_Oh, that tone. That he used. Right. Well, that cleared that up._ "I swear I'm not trying to use a tone," he said, attempting to change his inflection.

"You did use it. You're _still_ using it, and…and I don't need your help!"

"I'm _sorry_," Sam said weakly for what felt like the hundredth time.

The kitchen door swung open. "How's the freak out session going?" Nick said sweetly, twirling his knife.

"I'm not freaking out!" Dean shouted back, chest heaving.

Nick grinned. He licked a streak of blood off the blade. "Ah. So it's going well. Glad to hear it."

Dean shoved him backward. "Get out! You're not…you're not even _real_, damn it! You're dead. Get out of my mind!"

Nick turned to Sam and made a big deal of whispering not-so secretly to him, "Sorry kid, your brother's gone totally wacko. You might want to start accepting applications for a new hunting partner—"

Dean's expression grew even more livid. "Shut up!"

Nick ignored him. "Or, you know what, Sammy? Why don't you just head out now and leave your ex-brother at the hospital? I'm sure the nurses will watch out for him and…you know…_try _their hardest to understand the gibberish he tries to tell them."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "I would _never_—"

Dean darted forward and slammed Nick against the wall, hard enough that the beams shook. "Stop," he hissed.

Nick continued looking cheerfully at Sam, "Don't feel bad, Dean probably won't even remember you after you've been gone for a month or two. His mind is really going downhill these days—"

That was enough. Shaking with fury, Dean snatched the butcher knife out of Nick's hand and stabbed it deep into his chest. "Stop. Talking!" he shouted.

Nick _laughed_. He laughed a high pitched, squealing laugh that set every nerve in Sam's body on edge. He watched as his brother twisted the knife violently, marring Nick's chest cavity. The man just kept laughing even as his intestines snaked out onto the hardwood floor.

"Leave me the hell alone!" Dean screamed at him, at the end of his rope. His eyes were wild and bloodshot.

"You're never going to get better," Nick said, blood dripping in between his teeth and pouring from his lips, "We're roommates for life. Get used to it, because Sammy's not going to put up with you for much longer."

Sam had had it. Wordlessly, he closed the distance between them and snatched the knife out of Dean's hand.

Nick grinned. "Oh, hey there Sammy—"

Sam sawed the blade through Nick's throat, ignoring the blood that rushed all over his arms and clothes as he worked to cut through bone. Once severed, Nick's head dropped to the ground, bouncing once before rolling to a stop at Dean's feet.

"Can't get rid of me," Nick's head taunted him, "But nice try."

Sam snatched up the head by the hair and charged to the nearest window. He thrust the pane open and threw the head as far away as he could into the fog. It landed in the driveway. Before he could slam the frame back down the face swiveled towards him and grinned. Sam pulled the curtains shut. Stomach churning, he turned away from the window to look for Dean—who was gone.

Sam groaned. For god's sake, he was in _Dean's _dream. You'd think the easiest thing about being in _Dean's_ dream would be knowing where _Dean_ was in it. Why was it always so difficult to keep track of him? "Dean?" he called. There was no answer, so he walked briskly out of the room and into the dim hallway. Still no older brother. He continued forward under the old chandeliers, following the stretch of carpet around the corner, where he found him crouched down against the base of a wall, eyes locked straight ahead. He sank down beside him and wiped Nick's blood from his arms onto his jeans.

Dean didn't look at him. In fact, his eyes looked anywhere _but _where he was. The silence stretched awkwardly.

Sam had spent one painful week unable to talk with his brother. He wasn't going to waste what might be his last chance in a while to do just that. "You're right," he said, "Killing Nick does make for great stress relief."

Dean fidgeted with his watch. "Yeah," he said finally, but stopped. He groaned. "Sam…"

Sam leaned back, shutting his eyes tiredly. "I know," he said, "This is the worst."

"_Ever,_" Dean said dejectedly.

Sam fell silent, his mind scrambling to put everything together about Dean's recent behavior and the freak out that had just occurred in the living room. He could've kicked himself. All this time he had thought Dean was mainly worried about recovering and talking again, when he was really worried about…about something completely _stupid_,something Sam hadn't even considered until Nick had started shouting it at him.

Dean honestly thought that his brother was going to get impatient and leave. To Sam, it was like a smack in the face, because—_god_—how could Dean even _think_ he would do that? Of course, Sam remembered guiltily, it wasn't like he had the best track record when it came to staying put…

Dean misinterpreted his silence to mean his fears held some weight. His expression morphed into something even more miserable. "Look," he said, "I get it if you're going…stir crazy in the hospital with me."

_Oh hell. _"I'm not leaving you, Dean," he said, because he _wasn't_, and he needed his brother to get that. "You know that, right?"

"Sam," Dean said tonelessly, staring straight ahead, "It's been two weeks."

Yeah. He knew that. It had been a tough couple of weeks. "So what?"

"So…so I can't talk," Dean said, "And you're…fine. Mostly healed up and everything."

"So what?" Sam said again, more testily.

Exasperated, Dean finally looked at Sam. "What part of this aren't you getting? I. Can't. Talk," he said slowly, like Sam was a little kid who couldn't see why two plus two had to equal four.

"Yeah Dean, I know that," Sam said (_like I could have ever forgotten)_, "And my question still stands."

"Question?"

"Yeah," Sam repeated, "So what?"

Dean's brow furrowed. "What do you mean 'so what?' It's…I can't talk yet."

"I'm sorry, let me rephrase," Sam said, "So the _fuck_ what?"

Dean stared.

Sam took a moment to calm down. His words had come out a bit more harshly than he'd intended, but it wasn't _actual _anger, just little brother being misunderstood anger, and he knew Dean would be able to tell the difference, "Listen. I don't care if you can't talk now, or a month from now…hell, I don't care if you never talk again. I just want you to be _alive, _Dean, talking is a damn _bonus_."

"But…hunting…"

"Screw hunting," Sam said, and paused, "No, you know what? We're so good at hunting together we could probably take down god-awful apparitions and Stephen King monsters _without _saying a single word to each other."

"That's not true."

"Yeah, yeah it is," Sam said defensively, "I usually do all the talking to families and ghosts without violence crap anyway, so it wouldn't even be changing our routine all that much."

"Too dangerous."

"Is it really? I mean, yeah, I'd have to do all the Latin stuff, but do you need your voice to draw a devils trap? Or dig graves? Or light corpses on fire?"

"Sam…"

"I'm pretty sure that guns aren't voice activated yet either, so you're still more than welcome to go trigger happy on everything."

"It would be _dangerous_," Dean repeated, but with less conviction this time.

"Like everything we do _isn't_ dangerous?" Sam scoffed.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. And what _I'm _saying is that your sight is back to ninety percent, you can hear me whisper things to the nurses—don't give me that look, I _know _you keep eavesdropping on me—and you can walk around pretty fine, although you do have a little trouble getting started and you won't be running anytime soon."

Dean stared, indignation creeping into his voice. "You were spying on me?"

"Of course I was."

"Yes. Right. Of _course_ you were," Dean said mockingly.

"_Now_ who sounds all pissy?" Sam shot at him.

"That would be you."

Sam smiled, relieved that Dean was back to being…Dean. "In your _dreams_," he said.

"Really? _Really_? You're not funny, you know. Not at all."

"Me? I'm always funny."

"Right, aside from the small problem of you always boring people to death," Dean said, "And let me just say right now that as long as I can't talk, we are _not _hunting. I'm not going to star in some Helen Keller ghost hunting flop."

"I do not bore people to death, Dean. That has not happened once. Not _once_. And I'm sorry, but in order to be Helen Keller you'd need to be blind _and _deaf _and _unable to talk _and_…oh yes, a _girl_—"

"There you go again, boring people to death."

"Oh, I'm sorry, who _exactly _did I just bore to death?"

"Me."

"You don't look dead."

"Yes, I wouldn't look dead _here_, but in the real world I just flat lined."

Sam growled. "Don't even joke about that."

"Why?"

"Because if you do I'm going to tell you about the complications the doctors had fixing up all my knife wounds."

Dean's eyebrows narrowed. "What complications?"

"Oh, how 'bout when they kept losing me on the operating table and they had to keep pumping me full of donated blood—"

Dean blanched. "What?"

"Ha! In your _face_!" Sam finished, poking his brother hard in the arm.

Dean stared at the teasing expression on Sam's face for a moment, and then he smirked. He leaned back again and stretched his legs out in front of him. "You have a screwy sense of humor."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe. It's your fault," he said. He waited a moment and then poked him again, more softly this time. "So…you ready to bust out of the hospital?"

Dean looked up roughly. "What?"

"We're free to go; I already signed your release papers and everything."

"That…better not be another bad joke," Dean said, eying his expression wearily.

"You can leave either tomorrow or Wednesday, it's your choice."

To Dean, it was like twenty Victoria's Secret models had sauntered into the room. "Seriously? But they said I was going to be under observation for at least a month."

"Wellllll…" Sam said sheepishly, "I presented them with a series of evidence on why you don't have to be hospitalized anymore and they couldn't come up with a life threatening reason you couldn't leave."

The words went in one ear and out the other. Dean looked at him, smirking as he read between the lines. "You yelled at them, didn't you?"

Sam's mouth opened, then shut again. "I didn't…I just…"

Dean started laughing.

"Shut up," Sam said, hitting him lightly, "Fine, I yelled. I can't stand the staff at this hospital. Can't. Stand. Them. They're inept and tactless and I'm pretty sure they're all sleeping together—"

"Dude," Dean interrupted, making a face.

"Don't even ask me how I know," Sam said, shuddering, "So I signed the form because you're conscious and breathing on your own and they can't stop me."

"Good. We'll leave tomorrow."

"Are you sure? I hear Wednesday's lunch is meatloaf on a stick. Sounds epic—"

Dean shoved his laughing brother away.

"Oh…and I guess there's one more thing I should mention."

"What?"

Sam paused, thinking about how to word it. _You know the Impala…well…it sorta looks like it came out of a slasher film…_

"What?" Dean said again.

Sam lost his nerve. "Nothing."

**SNSNSN**

An hour later, Sam walked out of Dean's room and headed toward the cafeteria for caffeine. His brother was sleeping again, for which Sam was glad since he needed the rest (and, really, there was nothing else for Dean to do in the room). As he passed the main desk the nurses all turned to glare at him, one by one.

Sam fought the urge to perform an exorcism.

"Hey, Sam. Wait up! I have something I need to talk to you about, I need your help."

Turning around, he saw Chris striding toward him. The guy looked terrible, like he hadn't slept in days. He probably hadn't. "Hey," Sam said, tilting his head wearily toward the nurses' station in a subliminal '_for the love of god, don't say anything weird' _kind of way_. _"Ahem. What is it?"

Chris followed Sam's gaze toward all the women that were still glaring them down with their judgmental, beady eyes. "Oh, I just wanted to say hi," he said, sidestepping his actual, supernatural (and most definitely weird) concern. He thought for a moment, trying to recall normal things that normal people talked about. Normally. "I haven't seen you in a few days. How are things? How's your brother? I hope your…um, grandmother is well. I can't wait till Christmas, can you? Nice weather we're having."

Sam blinked. He tried to come up with the proper response. "Uh…yes?"

"Let's go for a walk."

"Alright," Sam said.

Chris dragged him out into the parking lot and only stopped his frantic pace when he reached the Impala (which Sam had _tried _to clean, really, but there was only so much he could do when it came to blood and shattered windows). "Sam, you have to help," he pleaded.

Sam's expression morphed into sympathy. "Chris, I told you. I'm still searching for how we can get Brandon to wake up. It might take a while—"

"No. No you don't…you don't get it. They want to _kill_ him," Chris interrupted him desperately, moving closer to Sam, "You have to stop them somehow."

Sam's brain did a three-sixty degree turn and flipped into hunter mode. "What? Who wants to kill him?"

"The doctors and nurses and…hell, maybe the janitor's even in on it, I don't know."

His brain stalled. "_Those _doctors and nurses?" he asked, pointing back at the building.

"Yes!" Chris snapped. "What other people would I be talking about?"

Sam looked at Chris more closely, taking in the dark bags under his eyes and the way he couldn't seem to stand still for more than a few seconds at a time. "Listen," he said softly, "I know their bedside manner leaves…_a lot_ to be desired, but they're not evil or anything; believe me, I checked. The holy water did nothing to them."

"_No_, you don't _understand_," Chris nearly shouted at him, "They want to pull the plug."

It clicked. "What?"

"Yes, damn it! They…they want to…" he said, and choked off. He felt Brandon grab his arm and squeeze, and the contact gave him the reassurance to continue, "She said they can do it, because he doesn't have brain activity or a…or a family."

Sam could feel anger snaking through his veins; he tried conceal it, because the last thing Chris needed was for him to freak out. "Whoa. Take a deep breath, alright? He's only been in here two weeks," he said, "They won't have the clearance for that yet. It's too soon."

"No. Sam, I checked, okay? They're trying to clear it already, passing him off as some homeless guy that no one cares enough to find," he finished, voice cracking.

Brandon flinched at the raw emotion in his brother's voice. Before Sam could answer he grabbed his brother's wrist and spelled meticulously into his palm, "_You care."_

Chris shook his head, disgusted with the whole situation. "It doesn't matter if _I _care! As far as they know, I'm just some guy off the street that found you. And for all the good I am at all this supernatural shit, I might as well be a stranger. I don't know what to do!"

"You're a doctor," Sam said softly.

"A fat load of good that's done me," Chris shot back, not really hearing him.

"No, Chris," Sam said patiently, "You're a _doctor_. You know how to treat patients, how life support machines work."

Chris paused. His expression became even more upset, "No. No way," he said, shaking his wrist from his brother, and stepping away, "You want me to…no."

"I don't think they'll be able to legally pull the plug yet—they're probably just all talk—but just in case the bastards manage to get clearance somehow or—more likely, considering the freaks they have working here—just shut off one of his machines and call it an accident, we should get him out. I'm actually having Dean released tomorrow; we can come up with a scheme to get Brandon out later that night. The place is practically a graveyard after midnight, right? And since you're a doctor and you'll have the needed equipment, you can take care of Brandon until we figure something out."

"No. I can't."

"Why?"

"Sam…it's…there's too much…"

"Spit it out."

"His body's got too much damage!" Chris exploded finally, "I don't…I tried pretending, that it's not that bad, but they're right. The nurses. There _isn't _any brain activity and he doesn't breathe on his own and the only reason he's still physically even _there_ and isn't under six feet of dirt is because of a crap load of complicated machines that all do complicated things, and I'll do something wrong. I know I'll do something wrong, and he'll die and it'll be my fault."

Brandon stared. "Chris…no."

"He's not going to die," Sam said.

"You don't _know_."

"Maybe I had a vision about it."

"You didn't."

"I might have."

"But you didn't—"

"Fine," Sam conceded, "I didn't. But if you really want my opinion, I think he'd be better off away from the hospital until we figure something out or the antidote kicks in and he wakes up on his own. I think he'd be better off if _you _were the one watching out for him instead of the weirdoes in there."

Chris made a face.

"At least…that's what I'd do. If I was in your shoes right now."

He was silent for a minute, thinking. He didn't like any of it, but there really wasn't a choice. He wasn't leaving his brother in the hospital any longer than necessary. Brandon would back him up in whatever action he decided to take. That only made it harder to decide. "It'll be easy getting him out?"

"With the losers they have staffing this place?" Sam said, leaning against the Impala, "Too easy."

Chris looked down. "Alright," he said, "I…I trust you."

Sam nodded.

"And…one more thing," Chris said, "You did…_tell_…Dean about his car...didn't you?"

Sam hesitated. "Uh…"

"You _didn't_?"

"What? I mean…I might have," he lied badly, nervous, "Er…define _tell_."

"Ah hell."

**SNSNSN**

**The Next Day**

Getting out of the hospital was the easy part. Dean (for once in his life) sat back and allowed Sam to take care of all the tedious protocol the nurses shoved at him—mainly signing stacks of paperwork and sidestepping wheelchair policies (just because Dean may have been half dead a few weeks ago didn't mean he was going to let anyone wheel him down any hallways, damn it).

No, it was a breeze getting out of the hospital. That is, until they reached the parking lot.

The Impala was underneath a black tarp. That set off the first round of warning bells, and he stopped dead as Sam pulled the plastic off their ride. He stared.

"Um…" Sam said awkwardly, looking away, as he folded the cover, "Yeah. I did…tell you, didn't I?"

Dean hovered a hand over the severely dented, window shattered, blood splotched side of the Impala. He looked at Sam.

Sam didn't need a single word from his brother to get what he wanted to say. "Okay, I know I didn't say anything, but I didn't want to make you freak," he said quickly, unconsciously stepping back away from Dean, "And you didn't…er…bring her up in any of the dreams, so…"

Dean opened the front passenger side door and gripped the roof of the car to take a look inside. At all the blood.

"It's mainly just cosmetic damage," Sam continued desperately, "We'll just need to replace the windows and…uh…clean up the blood. I tried to get it off, but…you know how blood can be. There was just too much of it…kinda soaked through."

Dean stared, horrified. The Impala was a disaster—to the extent that Sam had needed to hide it underneath a cover to stop people from inquiring about it—and yeah, it was a nightmarish situation and he'd definitely get pissed about it later, but he was finding it impossible to reach his usual state of fury when so much blood was leering at him from every surface.

He knew it was Sam's. Yeah, there was the single stain on the backseat that he vaguely remembered making when they left the hotel, but the rest—caked down between the seats, on the floor, under the windows, on the damn _ceiling_—was Sam's. How much blood had his brother lost? No, scratch that, how much blood was it possible to lose before kicking the bucket, because this had to be right at that line.

Sam watched him—from a safe distance, because he wasn't _stupid_—and tried to figure out what to do next. He had said everything he had rehearsed (multiple times, in front of mirrors) and appeared to still be alive (which was a plus) but had no idea what to do now. Dean's expression wasn't helping. "What?" he asked.

Dean's mouth opened and he breathed in—and stopped, remembering. No talking. His frustration skyrocketed as he contemplated how the hell he was going to learn to communicate solely through charades. He had never been good at charades. Talking? Yes. Acting? No. It was too slow, too frustrating, and Sam was being unusually thick headed today. Besides, how did you act out a sentence like _'Well Sam, I guess I'm just a teeny bit upset at the river of blood you left in the Impala. You know, that you didn't tell me about. Any additional injuries you want fess up about before I find out myself and beat the living shit out of you?'_

Yeah. Like that was plausible.

"Dean?" Sam said, stepping closer when his brother said nothing. "I…we can fix it."

Dean shook his head, irritated. _That's not it. _

Sam took on an equal look of frustration. "Dean…I can't…I don't know…it's hard to read you right now, man. You're just…"

Dean's glare deepened.

Sam wished he had more dream root. "I'm sorry about the blood?" he hazarded, noting that he must've guessed wrong when Dean's expression darkened further. He glanced back at the hospital. The nurses were all standing on the sidewalk. Staring. He gave them a quick wave. One especially old woman flipped him the bird.

Dean snapped his fingers impatiently in front of Sam's face.

"Oh…uh…what?"

He gestured angrily at the car again, then slid into his seat—that is, the seat that most definitely was _not _his, but which he was resigned to ride in until Sam thought he could see right (or until he just stole the keys back). He sat, keeping his hands on his knees, and tried to pretend he wasn't sitting in a cocoon of his brother's blood.

Sam slid into the driver's seat and started the car. "Are you sure that…uh…you…I mean…"

_Now who can't speak in sentences? _He stiffly gestured for Sam to just move the hell out of the parking lot. As he drew in another breath he found himself oddly thankful that the windows were shattered, because the smell of the interior alone was enough to set him on edge. The thought was ridiculous enough to make him laugh.

Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye.

_Just wait, Sammy. Once I'm back to normal you are so dead._

**SNSNSN**

Chris was going to projectile vomit. He wasn't sure when, and he wasn't sure where, but it was coming. The action was well overdue.

It didn't seem to be forthcoming yet, so he paced back and forth in the deserted ICU instead. Waiting. "Sam should be here soon," he said, glancing at the clock for the millionth time that hour. It was after two a.m.

He didn't want it to be after two a.m. He didn't want to do this.

Brandon sat on one of the empty cots, dangling his legs over the edge. "Stop freaking," he said, unheard, "You're starting to make _me _nervous."

As Chris started a fresh round of wearing the tile thin, Brandon threw a pencil at him.

Chris stopped and rubbed at the back of his head. "Ow," he muttered, turning back toward his brother (assuming, of course, that he was beside the laptop screen). "That hurt."

Brandon snorted. "Don't be such a baby," he typed out, "It was a pencil."

"Yeah? So what?" Chris said defensively, "It was a…_big_ pencil."

It wasn't. It was barely a stub.

"Next time I'll hit you with the fire extinguisher."

Chris laughed. "Yeah right," he said, unable to stop his eyes from straying to the extinguisher where it was stationed at the far wall.

"At least then it would be a bit more manly to say 'ow' than after getting hit by a pencil."

Chris raised his hand and swooped it through the space above the cot where he knew Brandon was. "Shut it."

"Missed me."

"No way, I just beat the stuffing out of you, admit it."

"Whatever," Brandon typed.

Chris turned away again, ready to resume pacing.

Brandon chucked another pencil at him.

"For god's sake, Brandon," Chris exclaimed, turning back, "How old are you, anyway? Where are you hiding those things?"

"Stop worrying. You've got everything all ready to go."

He shrugged.

"And you checked it fifty times."

"It wasn't that many…"

"Thirty, then."

Chris shrugged. "Sounds right," he concluded. He paused, listening as he heard footsteps on the stairs. "Ah hell," he groaned.

"Stop acting like he wants to execute you."

"I'm not," he said, "It's just…you know. Don't you dare do something dumb like flatline."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Don't," Chris emphasized sternly, then turned to the door in time to see Sam come in—followed closely by Dean. That was unexpected. "Uh…"

"Hey," Sam said, slinging his pack down off his arm, "You ready? We've got the van waiting out in the lot, and the only nurse watching the place is…occupied."

_Sexing it up, _Dean added silently, frowning at all the wires that were attached to machines that were attached to Brandon's body. _ Well doesn't this look fun…_

"Oh. Good," Chris said, nervously slipping his watch on and off. He nodded at Dean. "I wasn't aware you were…coming."

Dean's expression tightened.

"He's fine," Sam said, slipping between them before Chris said something stupid and got slugged, "He's good. He wanted to come—_I _wanted him to come—we need someone to keep a look out. Plus, we might need a diversion before the night's over. He's good at those. Trust me."

"I thought you said the one nurse was occupied."

"Yeah…well…it's all a matter of…" Sam dropped off awkwardly.

"How long tonight's mystery man can keep her satisfied?" Brandon typed.

Sam squinted at the screen. He laughed. "Pretty much," he said, and walked over to Brandon's body. "So…what now, doc?"

"Well," Chris said, "It should be pretty simple…barring some demon leaping up from the ground and blasting us with brimstone—"

"Huh?" Sam interrupted, "Dude…why would you even say that? We have bad enough luck as it is."

"I never know with you people. Anyhow, Brandon and I attached wheels to the machines he needs…you know, the ones that keep beeping and lighting up and get super annoying—"

Dean peeked out into the hallway. He nodded to Sam and motioned for him to hurry things the hell up before he walked in there and dragged them all out.

"I see them," Sam interrupted Chris, "Just give me the Spark Notes version."

"Right. Well. They're on wheels just like the gurney so everything should just move when we push it, we just have to make sure nothing detaches. And earlier I unplugged everything and switched it all over to battery power, so—"

"I get it," Sam interrupted again, grabbing onto the top of the gurney. "I got this side. You get the bottom half and whatever _that_ machine is that's doing all the manic beeping, and Brandon can keep hold of the other machines. Dean, we good?"

Dean turned and gave him an over exaggerated thumbs up. He crept out into the hallway, listening as the others began their tedious journey down to the van.

Later, when he looked back on that night, it was amusing that he had believed getting out of the hospital would be their biggest problem.

**REVIEW PLEASE! Thanks for reading. :)**


	31. Followed

**Thank you for all your feedback! I'm happy to say that the boys get out of the hospital in this chapter (_finally)_. Enjoy.**

The group inched their way down the dim hallway, careful not to make any unnecessary noise. The main nurses' desk was empty as expected, along with half the patients' rooms.

Dean was glad. It was about time they ran into a speck of luck.

He turned the corner peered down the last main stretch toward the elevator. Only one room was lit, casting slants of light against the walls. They were in the clear—as long as the ditsy nurse and her boy toy kept themselves occupied. He caught Sam's inquisitive gaze and motioned him forward. Only then did he notice music drifting out from underneath the door. At first he was appreciative, since it covered up the beeping machines, but then…

_Pour some sugar on me…In the name of loooove—_

He cringed. The guy was singing along. Badly. Volume increased as he neared, blaring a tone deaf, straining falsetto into his newly recovered ears. He couldn't bring himself to wish he was deaf again—there were some things he would rather just die than repeat—but _come on_. Forget Nick, this abysmal place was going to terrorize his dreams for months.

He and Sam were never stopping at any hospital ever again. End of story.

_Come over here, you bad, bad boy. _

Maria's voice drifted through, deep, gravelly, and struggling so hard to be sexy that she wound up sounding more like Attila the Hun. Dean snorted. Though he would have liked nothing more than to see his little brother's facial expression at the moment, he didn't dare let himself turn around.

_Should I tie you up and make you take it, or are you going to be good?_

Oh _god_. Unable to resist, Dean peeked back at Sam. His brother met his gaze, lips twitching from barely held back laughter. A red blush was creeping steadily across his cheeks.

Smirking, Dean raised his eyebrows at him.

Sam flipped him off.

Still trying not to laugh, Dean needled the elevator button with his fist. Against all odds (_their _odds, anyway), the doors opened right away, and the bunch of them crammed into the small space as fast as humanly possible.

The doors shut. The box descended toward the ground floor, accompanied by a jolly piano tune that ran up and down octaves so frequently that the composer had to have been on drugs or, at the very least, dealing them.

"I'm going to switch professions," Chris said, eyes squeezed shut.

The laugh Dean had held back finally exploded through his lips, and he leaned back against the cool metal wall. Sam looked miserably embarrassed, which just made the situation all the more glorious.

Damn, he'd missed this. Well, not that…_thing_…up there, but doing something—_anything—_that didn't involve being helpless or stuck in a hospital bed.

They crept out the main doors and into the parking lot without seeing a single soul. The gurney's wheels made a dull scraping sound against the pavement as they pushed everything over toward the white van he and Sam had rented earlier that day as parking lights mimicked accusing search beams.

It didn't matter. No one was around.

Sam pulled the back doors open with the squeal of old hinges. A gust of cold wind whipped around them, tugging slightly at the blanket around Brandon's body. Chris tucked the misbehaving fabric back around his brother as Sam began gingerly lifting the front two machines into the rear of the vehicle. "Where's the free candy?" he asked.

Dean glanced at him questioningly.

Chris gestured to the white van. "If I'm supposed to get in this piece of crap, the least you guys can do is follow through with the stereotype," he said with a halfhearted smirk. He stumbled back a bit, glared around. "Brandon...don't push me."

"Can you give me a hand?" Sam asked, looking at Dean.

Dean's eyebrows rose. Sam—his overprotective little brother—wanted him to help _lift _something heavier than a sandwich? Yeah right. This was a little brother trick he knew quite well. Sam was deliberately including him, trying to prove to him that he was still useful. Sometimes it was too easy to see through the kid.

Didn't mean he didn't appreciate it, though.

Dean nodded. He walked unsteadily over to Sam and grabbed a corner of the gurney.

"Coming," Chris said in answer to Sam's question, having completely missed the silent conversation between the brothers. He grabbed the other side of the gurney, and together the three of them folded the legs up and began heaving the makeshift bed up into the van.

Sam winced.

Dean froze, catching the expression on his brother's face. He'd seen that expression before.

_Shit._

"Dean…" Sam cried out to him, squeezing his eyes shut, "Gah…"

"What?" Chris said, concerned, "What's wrong?"

Unable to hold the gurney up any longer, Sam reached up and grabbed his head with both hands, leaving Dean—who had just gotten out of the hospital prematurely—with half the weight. He strained, the tip of the gurney almost resting on the back lip of the vehicle. _So close. _

"What are you…Sam!" Chris grunted, noting that Dean wasn't going to be able to hold up the side by himself. "Damn—Brandon—"

Dean's arms quivered uncontrollably from exertion, and his shoulder felt like it was on _fire_. He considered trying to sit the stretcher down on the ground so that he wouldn't drop it, but before he could decide something else took the weight.

_Brandon. _Thanking whichever god happened to be awake at this early hour, Dean allowed his trembling limbs to drop. As soon as he was sure that the invisible man could handle his half by himself, Dean left his post and limped around the side of the van, where Sam had fallen on his hands and knees and was gasping like a fish out of water.

Gingerly, Dean knelt on the blacktop and grabbed his shoulders, pushing his brother upright against the van. _"Sam," _He said aloud, then frowned, disgusted. A syllable had come out of his mouth, but it hadn't formed his brother's name. He noted that at least he sounded more like himself, but that was little consolation when couldn't even say his brother's _name. _

Feeling useless, he grabbed Sam and pulled him into a—a _not_ hug, definitely not. He tucked Sam's head underneath his chin and tightened his grip as the kid dug his fingernails painfully into his wrist and let out the occasional distressed whimper. _Shouldn't the damn thing be over already? They never lasted this long. _

Finally, Sam jerked and opened his eyes, sputtering like he forgot how to take a breath.

Relieved, Dean tightened his hold and continued to hold his brother up. _Sammy, c'mon…breathe, alright? _Frustration quickly replaced relief when it took too damn long for Sam to look at him, because he wanted to know—he _needed_ to know—what happened, and he couldn't give voice to the routine questions.

"Is Voldemort nearby?" Chris enquired.

Dean snarled, effectively managing to convey _exactly_ what he thought about that question.

Chris looked sheepish. "I just…when Voldemort's nearby Harry always groans and clutches at his head, and—" he cut off abruptly, looked to his left and rubbed his arm, "_Ow_. Okay, fine, I'll be quiet. Sorry," he addressed Dean, and then turned and hissed, "_Quit hitting me, Brandon_."

"D'n," Sam muttered at last, pushing himself back so that he could see his brother's face, "Gotta go. Now."

_Why? _

Sam saw the question in his eyes. "I'll explain…ahh…in the van."

Alright then. Dean climbed to his feet (slowly and painfully) and then held his good arm out for Sam to take.

Sam reached out and allowed Dean to half pull him up. "Forgot how those hurt," he muttered, stumbling over to the other side of the van. He tossed Dean the keys.

Dean stared, unable to stop a small grin of triumph from spreading across his face.

"Shut up," Sam said, getting in his side, "I can't see straight to drive with my head pounding like this."

"So…we're leaving?" Chris said uncertainly. "But you just had one of those…_thingies_, didn't you?"

"Get in," Sam ordered, leaning back against the seat and closing his eyes, "Make sure nothing moves around back there."

Chris dutifully got in the back with his brother's body and pulled the squeaky doors closed. "How long till we get to the hotel?" he asked.

"We're not going to the hotel," Sam said as Dean drove the van out of the lot.

Dean shot him a questioning glance.

"We're being followed dude," Sam told him, "You gotta pull out on the highway and just _go._"

"Followed?" Chris repeated, knocking his head against the side as they hit a bump, "Followed…who would want to follow us? Who _is _following us?"

"I didn't recognize her," Sam said, trying to massage away some of the pain in his temple.

"Her?" Chris snorted, "It's just a girl? That can't be too dangerous."

"She had a bunch of explosives rigged up at our hotel room," Sam countered flatly, "Blew us all to hell and then proceeded to shower the room with bullets from an M-16."

Dean grunted. Bet that was fun to witness…

"Ohhh," Chris said. "Yeah. I'm with Sam on this 'avoid the hotel' thing. Good plan."

_Who did we piss off this time? _Dean fumed, taking the road out of the town. _Was Nick working with someone?_

"I don't get it, man," Sam said, glancing at him. "You don't think Nick was working with anyone, do you?"

Dean sighed in relief. At least Sam seemed to be riding on his wavelength at the moment. Or they really did have some kind of brotherly ESP. In any case, he was in the dark about the mystery girl just as much as Sam. He shrugged, shaking his head.

"I can't believe you would've missed something like that," Chris said.

Dean shot daggers at him in the rearview mirror.

"I meant us," he amended quickly, "_Us_. As in, I can't believe _we _as an intelligent _group _of individuals would miss something like that. It didn't look like anyone else was living at the cabin."

"Maybe they weren't living there, maybe…oh I don't know," Sam admitted, thinking aloud for Dean's sake, "She could be anyone. It's not like we don't have enemies."

"People hate you?"

Sam snorted.

"Well let's just…narrow it down. It can't be that hard. How many people do you two normally piss off?"

"Lots," Sam said wearily.

"I mean in the last year. People that have guns."

"Tons."

"Really? But you…Okay. How 'bout just women?"

"Pfft. With _this guy_ around?" Sam said, pointing his thumb at Dean.

"Great. Some hooker is after us. Was she wearing fishnet stockings? Look a bit like Lady Gaga?"

Sam glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "That would be freaky, but no. Brown hair, brown eyes. Ordinary."

"Well that sucks. I would have felt a little better if a smoking hot brunette was coming to blow us off the face of…uh…North America."

Sam blinked.

"What? I don't know what state we're going to end up in. You two like to travel the country, so…"

Dean drowned his voice out, clenched the wheel tighter. Who _had_ they pissed off lately? He had no idea—he still couldn't remember anyone from his past but Sam. He glanced over at his brother.

"I'm thinking," Sam told him, biting a hole into his lip.

"Why didn't she attack us when we were at the hospital for weeks?" Chris pondered, grabbing onto one of the life support machines when it started sliding as Dean took a corner. "Damn it, drive slower man!"

Dean's expression tightened, but he did slow down. A little.

They drove for two tense hours, then stopped at a small motel on the side of a crossroads. _Krusty's Korner. _It was slightly after five in the morning, and the black sky had lightened into darker blue. It was still too cold. When Sam stepped down out of the vehicle his breath curled around him as he exhaled. "I'll check in," he told Dean, and shut the door.

The gravel crunched underneath his boots as he made his way to the door. A kid in middle teens sat in a wheelchair at the front desk, bouncing a ratty tennis ball off the floor and onto the wall with a hollow thunking sound.

_Thump thud—thump thud—thump thud—_

"Hi," Sam said, stomping his wet shoes on the mat and walking closer.

The kid caught the ball and slapped it down in front of him on the marble countertop. He eyed Sam. "Morning."

Sam placed his hands on the counter. "Uh…I'd like a room."

"You got it," he said, turning on the computer monitor and making a few clicks. "Single or double, smoking or non?"

"Double. Non," Sam answered, glancing around wearily. The place smelled like lemon cleaner and looked like it had been recently remodeled.

"You don't have any pets, do you, 'cause that's an extra ten bucks a night. We had an old woman stay here for a month, and she kept her cat here the whole time…we had to completely rip up the carpet after she left, if you know what I mean.

"No. No pets," Sam said. _Just a coma victim. And an annoying older brother that sometimes acts like a riled up puppy. _

The guy made a few more clicks and then wheeled his chair to the back shelf. He pulled out an envelope and shoved a couple key cards inside. "Alright, Mr…?"

Sam sidestepped the question. "I'd like to pay with cash. Two nights." _Just in case…_

He grinned. "Alright. You want to remain creepy and mysterious, that's fine with me. That'll be 160 dollars upfront."

Sam got out his wallet. "Sorry," he said, "It's been a rough night."

"Says the creepy guy," he added as he took Sam's money. He gestured at the van out front. "What kind of candy you giving away?"

Sam ran a hand over his eyes. "It's a rental."

"Of course it is," he said, slapping the key cards down in front of Sam. "Well, there you are, Mr. No Name. Room twelve, it's just around the left side. If you come down between seven and eight we set out a cold breakfast. Cereal and yogurt. Coffee. Nothing to write home about. You got any problems just pop in here."

"Thanks," Sam said, and walked out the door as the kid resumed hitting the ball against the wall.

Chris was outside leaning against the van. "Shouldn't we be staying somewhere…populated?"

"More people would get hurt if she catches us," Sam said simply, looking at the numbers on the doors. They were parked catty-corner to room twelve, and he motioned Dean where he should park.

"Uh…the kid's still watching us."

Sam shrugged. "He's fine. Let's get your brother inside so you can check on how much battery power is left…and I'll hide the scary van around back."

**SNSNSN**

Sam waited until they were settled into the room before he walked out into the lot and called Bobby.

The phone didn't even ring this time; just went straight to voicemail. _Leave a message after the beep? Why yes, yes I will. _"Hey Bobby, it's Sam. Sam _Winchester_. Remember me?" he paused for effect, and his bright tone soured, "You better have a Damn. Good. Explanation. for this whole ignoring us thing—it's been a _month _man! A goddamn month! And you…you better not be dead. You got that? _Do you?_ 'Cause when I do find you—assuming of course that you're trapped half-dead in the mountains or decided to take a hunt deep in the damn Amazon Rainforest where technology breaks down to rubbing sticks together to make fire—I'm going to…to…to beat the living _shit_ out of you! You got that? Answer your damn phone, asshole!"

He ended the call and folded his arms across his chest (which _still_ throbbed from all the bullet and knife wounds) and stood there a moment, breath still fogging the air as the fury and helplessness raged. He stuffed his hands into warm pockets and half turned around. "You tryin' to be stealthy?" he shot out.

Dean stood behind him, where he had been for the duration of the call, leaning against the siding. He shook his head. _Nah Sammy. Just watching out for you. _

"Good," he said, carefully sitting atop the curb, "Cause you're terrible at it. I heard you coming a mile away."

_Where do you think you learned that from? _He stepped up and sat beside his brother, who was staring at his phone like it had announced that it would self-destruct in ten seconds.

"I'm gonna kill Bobby," Sam muttered, a slight hysterical twinge to his voice, "Just so you know, if you don't remember him soon, you're probably not going to get the chance to meet him."

Dean placed a hand on his shoulder. Squeezed.

He angrily kicked a loose stone, subconsciously leaning closer to his brother. The icy air stuck in his lungs and made him cough, but when he spoke again his voice was level. "Okay. Right. What do you think we should do? About the girl. I mean…_I _don't have a clue who she is, and unless you've had a sudden memory surge…?"

Dean winced.

"Yeah, that's…that's fine. It'll come back," Sam said, all too hopefully. "I don't know if you would have known her anyway…I didn't recognize her from a hunt. Recent, anyway. And I doubt she's one of your one night stands. Too plain, ordinary…you know, disregarding the fact that she was packing explosives. That's a little too kinky even for you."

He snorted.

Sam hesitated, then, "Do you even…_remember_…having one night stands? Drinking in bars? Conning drunks at pool?"

The questions caught him off guard, though not as much as the answer that, in fact, he _didn't _remember doing any of those things. It must've shone in his eyes before he could hide it, because Sam turned away.

"Damn it," Sam hissed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's like half your mind is missing."

Dean shrugged, close enough to his brother that he was sure Sam would feel the movement. _Not the half that matters, Sammy. _

"Do you…think it'll get worse?" Sam said slowly, and god, he sounded like he was seven again, "It won't, will it? 'Cause you're getting better. A lot better. Only…when I was signing all the release forms the doctor kept telling me that there's a possibility you'll relapse and your memory will fail further, and you'll forget more stuff, like…like…"

_Like me. _

Dean saw what his brother was trying to say. His desire to pummel the staff of that inept hospital erupted once again. Furious, he grabbed both of Sam's shoulders and roughly spun him so that they were facing each other. He shook his head, eyes burning into Sam's. _No. Goddamn it Sam, no. Never gonna happen. I don't give a shit what those freaks said, got it? They don't know me, and they don't know you. You got that?_

Sam got the message. He tried to smile, but ended up sniffing instead. "Okay," he said, embarrassed by how pathetic his voice came out. Before he could end the dreaded conversation there, the thing that had bothered him the most for weeks tumbled out of his mouth, unbidden, "Can you please just…talk soon? I can't stand all this silence, you're _never _silent. You keep me calm in situations like this by being an annoying loudmouth jerk, and I'm…I'm _used_ to that. I need that, or I'm going to lose my mind here, man. I know it might be selfish, but I don't care if you never remember Bobby, or Dad, or…or whatever else, as long as you can just _talk_ to me, okay?"

Dean felt sick. The past couple weeks, packed to the brim with moments of Sam desperately trying to cheer him up, slammed back into his face. Sam had been hurting, and he hadn't paid attention.

"Okay?" Sam repeated, desperate.

Unsure of what else he could do, Dean nodded. His insides clenched tighter. _Yeah Sammy. I'm with you, and I'm gonna try harder. Promise._

Chris opened the door behind them—lacking stealth because it was old and broken and didn't open unless you _really _heaved against it. "Uh…guys? What are you doing?" he asked, slamming his body against the door until it closed again. The last thing he needed right now was for Brandon to catch a cold.

"Talking."

"Oh," Chris paused. He thought a second, putting things together, "Is that…possible?"

"Fine," Sam amended, swiveling to face him, "We're ESPing. Happy?"

"Ecstatic. Well, I'll be happier when the stripper—"

"She wasn't a stripper—"

"Fine! When the _ugly girl _is dead and we're all still miraculously _un_exploded."

"I know, okay? I know. But since we don't know who she is or what she wants and we're…at a slight disadvantage—"

"Oh, you mean because one of us is a coma victim and you two just got out of the hospital? _That_ disadvantage? Right, that's not so much a disadvantage as it is an inevitable _catastrophe_—"

"We're going to have to take precautions," Sam said.

"For our impending doom? Great. Do these precautions involve sitting in the parking lot—"

"I was calling for—"

"Could you stop interrupting everything I say?"

"I was calling for _backup_," Sam finished.

"Someone's coming?"

"No. He's not," Sam said bitterly.

Dean gently bumped his shoulder. _It'll be fine, Sammy. We don't need him._

"What do you mean he's not coming?" Chris demanded, expression souring.

"He hasn't been answering his phone."

"So call someone else."

Sam shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Dean.

"Seriously? You two only know _one person_ that could help?" Chris said flatly, interpreting the silence. "I thought you did this hunting goblins and ghouls thing for a living."

"People we know usually end up…dead," Sam admitted.

Chris groaned. "You are so…_comforting_, you know that? A walking inspirational billboard of comfort_._"

"Sorry," Sam said, meaning it. He stood up and looked at Dean. "Let's just go back in the room and brainstorm."

Dean wholeheartedly agreed. He stood up—with a little help from Sam—and watched Chris proceed to force entry into their own room.

"This place," Chris growled, shoving his shoulder against the wood, "Is such," he twisted the knob, shoved again, "A dive!"

Sam laughed. "C'mon man, it's just a door."

"'_C'mon man it's just a door_," Chris mocked him in falsetto as he finally managed to wrench the door open, "You suck, Winchester."

Sam shrugged. He started after them into the room.

A towel sailed across the dimly lit room and hit Chris in the chest. "Oh yeah, thanks Brandon," Chris said, turning back to Sam, "I forgot. We need more towels—assuming you two believe in showers as well as ghosts—and there's only one in here. _If, _of course, you can even call this ratty cloth a—"

"I'll get more," Sam said, already heading toward the office.

"Stop interrupting me!" Chris shouted at his back.

Half smiling, Sam walked around the lot to the lobby, discreetly checking the cars as he went. Nothing new had arrived, and nothing had left. They were alright; just needed a plan. He arrived in front of the glass doors, reached for the handle—

And saw _her _in the reflection of the glass.

**Please REVIEW! Thank you. :)**


	32. Voodoo

**Hey! I'm back. Thanks a billion for all your reviews. :) Sorry this took so long, but I've started a new job, and since this chapter is the climax I didn't want to rush it. That said, this chapter contains lots of action, guns, and language. You should expect that from me by now, but I figured I'd say it all the same. **

**Note: if Dean says anything outloud and I put it in _italics_, that means it doesn't make a scrap of sense to anyone around him. He might as well be speaking Greek. Oh, and Brandon's still got the invisible thing going on, so no one can even hear anything he says. **

**Enjoy. **

Sam's heart rate skyrocketed as he recognized the woman from his vision. Her stiff posture, the way her hair stuck out at odd angles from her hood (not to mention the flicker of metal in her hands) were all dead giveaways, really. _Dead giveaways_, he thought savagely, popping open the door like he hadn't seen certain death lurking outside the parking lot. He strolled into the heated lobby toward the dump's conceivably only night employee—yet another testament to the gaping deficiency that was his luck. The kid (because that's what he was, no way he was working there legally) had both elbows propped on the counter, listlessly doodling spirals and what looked like a horribly deformed hunchback on a brochure—though in his defense the artistry was probably the result of zero creative talent. He looked up when approached, blond strands of hair caught in his eyelashes. "Sir?"

"Hi. I'm back," Sam said, reaching the counter. A myriad of all too crystal windows draped with threadbare curtains framed his peripheral vision. The marble top felt too cold under his skin. "I'm afraid I have to report a bit of an inconvenience."

"Are the lights flickering?" the teen asked professionally, "I'm sorry, sir. That happened for a few months, but I thought we had the electrical bugs fixed."

"No," Sam said, squinting at the kid's professional brass name tag, "Er, Melvin, it's not that," Sam said. He stretched one hand into his pocket and brought up a text box from memory. To his brother, he sent one word.

_Here._

"It's not the lights?" Melvin said, and changed tracks smoothly as he swept his doodles underneath the keyboard, "Oh. Well, would you like to…" he paused, eyes closed briefly as if recalling a script, "File a personal complaint with management?"

"No. Smile for me."

He blinked. "What?"

"Look, I'm a paying customer. I'm paying for a room and I'm having a terrible day and I want some friendliness, got it? Smile."

Melvin smiled overzealously. "You're kinda freaking me out," he forced out between his teeth, "Are you a psycho killer?"

"No. Keep smiling and listen close. There's a woman outside loaded down with fancy explosives and guns, and she wants me and the group I came with dead."

"Uh…?" the smile, which had already been severely lacking in sincerity, iced over on his face.

"Don't act weird about it!" Sam snapped, head askew so that his expression couldn't be seen from outside. "She's watching. You're dead if she knows _I _know that. We both are."

The kid snickered, relaxed, and pushed the hair from his eyes. "Nice trick _crazy_. I'm not fallin' for it though. I'm in the eighth grade, honor classes and everything."

"You better change your mind unless you want to end up a _dead_ honor student," Sam said, eying the room for any weapons the kid might use. There was an ugly broom propped up in the corner. A few lamps dotted the vicinity—all equally Victorian styled and disappointingly miniature. And…that left the keyboard. Yeah. That would work fetchingly against explosives and a fray of bullets. "Do you have a gun?"

"Man, but I wish," he said, wheeling his chair closer to Sam and peering up, "Look Mr. No Name, what's your real deal here? Most guests only come to me complaining that there aren't enough towels—"

"Oh, yes, we need those too," Sam found himself saying, furiously contemplating his odds of not getting shot the second he stepped from the building. One lone .45 burned a hole through his pocket in a reassuring kind of way.

It would have been a great deal more reassuring if it had been a heat sensor tracking missile. He'd have to bring that one up with Dean; they should really order some new toys.

"How many towels do you—"

"Not _now_! What part of 'explosives' and 'guns' do you not get? Just stay here and hide under something, got it? Don't go outside, no matter what you hear."

"Should I call the _police_?" The kid was lit up like a Christmas tree of sarcasm.

"She probably cut the phone lines already. Now give me some towels."

"You said you didn't want—"

"_Towels_, Melvin! I can't just waltz out of here empty handed, she'll get suspicious. Now smile at me, kid. This is a normal interaction, got that? She's watching. _Smile._"

Melvin tried to smile. He really did, and it was a good effort that wound up looking like a really fake grin. He reached under the counter and threw a stack of ratty towels at him. "Hang on…oh fuck…_fuck_, you're not kidding?"

"No." The towels were sandpapery in his hands. Probably as old as the motel, maybe older. Disgusting. "And don't swear. Didn't your mother ever teach you that? How old are you, anyway? Ten? Your voice hasn't even changed."

"I'm not—"

"Shut it. She's still watching us, if you look in the mirror on the wall—for god's sake, don't look!—you can see her. Flush with the tree line."

"Okay. Why hasn't she shot you yet?"

"Kid, I don't even know who she _is_. Probably wants to wait and kill me up close and personal; that's what everything I've ever ticked off seems to want. Now stay here, keep your head down, and act normal."

"But she's got a _gun_—"

"I said I'll take care of it, now read your brochure and look _cheerful_ about it!"

**SNSNSN**

_Here. _

Dean stared down at the text, cursing silently because in his mind, Sam's _'here'_ roughly translated to:

_Hey bro. The mystery freak with explosives and firearms is outside, tracking me. I'm probably going to get shot, 'cause I'm out here by myself armed with towels and it's dark and there's been a demonic bulls eye on my forehead since birth. _

Fun-tastic.

He shoved the phone under Chris's nose to fill him in. Chris read the word and promptly didn't get it.

Dean could've throttled him.

While the elder Winchester furiously gesticulated from the phone to the door in a crude charades match, Brandon paced up behind them and squinted at the message. _'Here.' _His gut clenched as he understood, and he was secretly glad Chris was being dumb; Sam's message might as well have been his death sentence. The woman was here? _Now? _Not to be self-centered or anything, but those machines were all stood between him and a six foot grave, and no way was his brother going to leave him behind. The Winchesters wouldn't either if their track record stood.

Another glance at Chris's expression clarified that he had managed to piece the puzzle together as well. "She's _here_?" he said, hushed. Crestfallen. "But we drove _forever_!" He reached out his arm desperately, held on tight when he connected with Brandon's frigid apparition. He needed the contact, 'cause shit were they screwed. Again.

Locked in fiercely protective older brother mode, Dean grunted, already moving away toward the dresser. _Doesn't matter. _Ignoring the stabbing pain in his arms from all the recent activity, he snatched up the gun bag and tossed it onto the bed. Rifling through it, he tried not to imagine that Sam was already dead. He _wasn't. _There hadn't been a shot, or an explosion, and Sam was a smart kid. Smarter than anyone. _And damn if I couldn't use him right now to magic up a half-assed plan. _

"What…what can I do?" Chris asked, an acidic taste burning his throat. He waited, watching Dean blatantly ignore his question and pull guns, knives, and clips from the pack. A tug at his sleeve drew his attention back to his own older brother.

Brandon tugged Chris over to the far side of the room to the laptop perched atop the antique bedside table. Their lingering contact sent involuntary shivers through Chris's frame. When Brandon glanced over in concern and actually spotted white puffs of breath coming from his brother's mouth, he hedged back guiltily. "Sorry," he whispered, cuing up the computer, "Sorry."

Chris tightened his grip. "No. Don't. I'm fine," he said pleadingly, trying to quell the goosebumps inching across his skin. "It's not you, I'm just worried." Lies; their proximity made it cold enough that he might have been outside in the dead of winter minus a coat. He still had no intention of letting go.

Words flew across the laptop screen. "I'll go outside. See if I can spot her."

"No!" The shout flew out of his mouth before his brain could even process the statement. He didn't need time; that was easily the dumbest idea his brother had ever thought.

Then Dean was hovering over his shoulder, an almighty avenger or bounty hunter, guns heaved over his back and gleaming under his arm. He squinted at the words, nodded approval.

_Like hell. _"He's not going—"

"I'm invisible and if she fires at me while I'm like this her bullets won't do squat," Brandon typed, mind made up. He tugged his arm and then, when Chris still wouldn't relinquish his hold, phased out of his grasp.

The sudden absence of cold chilled Chris a hundred times worse than Brandon's proximity ever had. "_No_," he choked out. Begging.

A hand rested on his arm for a few heartbeats, gone before he could grasp at it.

Fighting back the urge to dart to the curtains and peek out the window, Chris sank down onto the yellowed bedspread. The situation reeked of desperation. It was so stupid. Wordlessly, he held his arm out, palm extended upward.

Dean plunked a shotgun into his hand, repressing an equally gripping need to rush out the broken door and shoot at everything that so much as twitched. Damn Sam for always getting himself into these situations. Damn him for making him fucking worry all the fucking time. For god's sake, he just went out to get _towels_. Who the hell gets attacked while getting _towels_?

**SNSNSN**

Swallowing back the urge to glance at his would-be assassin, Sam departed from the lobby. He carried the towels in what he hoped was a natural, carefree, I'm-definitely-not-expecting-an-attack kind of way. It was awkward to fake, what with keeping the .45 hidden between the stained folds of fabric. Fingering the trigger, he leisurely made his way to the opposite side of the lot. Like hell he was leading her right to Dean and the others, so he decided to stop at the ice machine. Fill a bucket. Move slowly. Not get shot.

Sounded like a plan. _Was_ that the plan? If so, important factors were missing. Like how he was supposed to survive_._

_Why hadn't she shot at him yet?_

Still balancing the towels, he plopped a plastic bucket under the machine and pressed it against the lever in the back, watched as a snowfall of ice chips tumbled into the container. He filled it to the brim. Shook it slightly until the ice settled, filled it a little more. Stalling.

An icy hand gingerly tapped him on the wrist holding the bucket. His mind screamed _Brandon,_ and he fought down all previous training and instincts to react defensively. Hesitating at the machine, he waited as Brandon wrote something on his hand.

4

Sam didn't even nod, just rotated on the spot to his 4:00 position, holding the ice bucket, crappy towels, and the .45. She was shrouded in darkness just beyond the cusp of the hallway. Metal glinted.

The chill retreated, and he assumed Brandon had taken off to get the others. Good. Taking a step forward, he made a show of readjusting the stack of towels on his arm while actually raising the gun into position. He fired.

Seconds later he found himself pinned back against the wall amidst the clatter of ice as the chips shattered at his feet. The air was heavy against his skin, pushing him back like a thousand sticky strands. Even as he twisted and fought it was all too clear that he had become a tiny fly on a web.

The young woman leapt toward him unnaturally fast, hair frizzing out behind her, a cloth doll clutched tight in her left hand. Sneering, she shifted her grip on the doll so that her fingers encircled its neck, and Sam couldn't breathe. It was like a rock was lodged in his throat. He gagged and coughed, desperate to dislodge whatever it was that was suffocating him_. _

Right before he blacked out, amidst the silent chorus of _what the hell _looping in his mind, he remembered the hunt, and the forest, and Nick begging Chris not to kill him because he had a daughter.

**SNSNSN**

Brandon charged at the door, barreling it open with a crunch and a bang that nearly disconnected the hinges. Before either man inside could so much as swear he snatched up Dean's arm and half dragged the hunter across the threshold.

Dean stumbled into the brisk morning air. His battered body protested the treatment but Brandon didn't relent, digging his nails deep against Dean's skin in his haste. If Dean was already scared for his brother, Brandon's frantic movements were making him downright terrified. He allowed himself to be pulled across the lot, barely noticing as a handful of crows that had been pecking for food took flight as they darted past. He narrowly scraped past the bumper of a badly parked pickup truck—the lightheaded feeling creeping up his spine could go screw itself because his brother needed him, damn it—and rounded the final bend into the core of the motel.

Brandon let go. Dean skidded to a stop, hands flung up to the concrete wall to catch himself from falling. Sam was pinned, lips blue and gasping, against the far wall beside an ice maker and a dusty Coke machine. The latter had a failing bulb that threw a constant strobe of shadow across half his face. Even as Dean pushed himself from the side and fumbled with his gun the woman was turning her attention toward him, M-16 coming up lazily against her shoulder to point at his chest.

She didn't expect Brandon to tackle her—invisibility did have its perks—and she hit the ground baffled and maddened with curses whizzing from her lips. She dropped the doll. Sam fell lifelessly down, smacking the pavement hard just in time for her already tightened trigger finger to let loose a stream of bullets, chipping at the walls mere feet away from Dean. He hit the deck and scrunching his body into a smaller target while still bringing his .45 back up. As he fired she twisted at the last second in an effort to dislodge Brandon and the bullet sank into her shoulder.

The wound didn't even slow her; she grappled for the doll again and held tight, pressing it against the floor. The empty M-16 clattered to her feet.

"_Sam! Get out!" _Dean shouted, (or tried to, really) pulling his gun up to fire again. His muscles shook under the strain and sent frantic signals to his brain that _movement equaled stabbing pain_, ultimately killing his chances of making a good shot. Any other day he would've fired for the hell of it, but no way was he about to play a round of chance when Sam was right there, practically underneath her. _"Go!"_

Sam still couldn't understand him. It didn't matter. He knew what his brother wanted because it was what he _always_ wanted—for him to be safe. This time, he couldn't oblige. "I can't move!" he hissed back, frustration darkening his words while he struggled against invisible bonds, "Dean…I _can't_!"

Noting the situation, Brandon adjusted his strategy and fought harder, trying to push her away from Sam to give Dean a clear shot. As he worked to inch her away she stretched to reach a shotgun she had dropped earlier, grasping it as Brandon bent her other arm back painfully. One swift kick sent him stumbling back a smidge, leaving her free to fire.

Rock salt exploded from the barrel. "No!" Startled, Sam fought with renewed vigor to get up.

It felt like something was ripping through his soul. Screaming, Brandon let her go and pushed out with his feet to crawl backwards, to get _away. _But she was right there, unfolding her long limbs and towering above him, the undertaker already aiming blindly for another shot. "Chris! _Chris_!"

"Where are you, you little shit?" _BAM _"Didn't think I'd be—" _BAM _"Ready for you huh? What the fuck—" _BAM _"Are you still alive for anyway—"

Dean could've sworn that Chris hadn't been behind him up to that point, but now he blurred past and hurtled himself in the small gap between the woman and the wall where he imagined his brother would be. "Don't. You. Touch. Him!" he roared, knocking the barrel of his shotgun tight against her temple.

One lip curled. "Oops."

"Get _back_," he snarled._ He's fine, he is, he has to be._ "Or I shoot."

"You couldn't kill Dad. You won't kill me."

_Dad? What the hell does…oh_. He looked at Dean and saw the same revelation dawning in his eyes. The whole apple falling from the tree curse. _Really?_ Hadn't they dealt with enough shit lately? Was it too much to ask for the bastard's vengeful kid to be a peace loving dentist? A preschool teacher? Maybe a hippie? _Christ_. "I _will_," Chris said icily, "Now back up and put down the damn shotgun." He fought the urge to glance back, knowing that he couldn't see his brother anyway. _C'mon man, what're you waiting for? For the love of god just grab my ankle or something so I know you're okay— _

He'd stalled too long. In one swift motion she dropped the gun and pulled Sam's doll from her belt, squeezing the neck for a second time.

"Whoa! Hey!" Chris yelled as Sam doubled over.

"I've got a better idea. You put _your _shotgun on the floor and _you _kick it to me or I'll snap his neck faster than your trigger finger can twitch," she said coldly.

"D'n—" Sam gasped, fighting for air, "S't 'r—"

She turned and spat out a mouthful of blood on Sam as he dropped, hands to his throat, gasping. "You killed my dad, you bastard. You had no right!" She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and dropped to her knees, holding Sam against her chest as a shield from Dean, who had already aimed his gun to kill.

Dean released pressure on the trigger when he realized he was targeting his brother's heaving form. He lowered the weapon with a growl. Sam's eyes snapped up to signal that he was alrightand that they would figure a way out of the mess. Since he'd never been able to pull off a lie in front of Dean, the attempt was doomed from the start. All Dean could see was fear, pain, and a little brother trying not to call out for help.

"Either of you two so much as _breathes_ funny, I'll end him," she threatened, gripping the doll tighter until Sam was wheezing in short squeaks.

"_Okay, okay," _Dean said, undone by the noises projecting from his brother's mouth. As his throat went dry he set his gun down on the concrete floor. _"Just let him go."_

"Sorry, I didn't quite get that, I don't speak _zombie_," she replied. She squeezed harder.

Sam balked as his air pipe cut off completely. _Dean—_

Dean tensed, inched back with hands up to placate her from…what? Where was the way out of this? His mind swirled, spiraling down a hundred avenues that ended with one—or all—of them getting shot through like Swiss cheese. Nevermind that it was agony to even _think_ with Sam looking at him like that, like he was trusting him to have a plan. Dean's recent inability to say anything (_hold on, Sammy. I'm coming, I swear to god I'm gonna get you out, just hold on a little longer for me, just a little longer) _tore at him with renewed despair. _"Goddamn it, bitch! What do you want?" _he shrieked, wanting nothing more than to run to his brother and rip him away from her.

"You know, you should try learning English," she taunted him, "Once this guy's dead you'll have loads of free time, right? I hear the Rosetta Stone works wonders."

Dean's arm shot out, gun up again. _"I'll kill you—"_

"Oh put it down. With your arm shaking like that, you're more likely to shoot him than me," she said, "And you know that."

It was getting impossible to think. Sam couldn't get up, couldn't fight his way out. The sound of Dean's voice was the only thing that made sense. He clung to it all lightheaded and blacking out, knowing that if he ever stopped listening he'd stop _fighting_. He could barely keep his eyes open; aggravating yellow spots peppered his view of Dean, threatening to overcome him completely. He didn't want to shut his lids, didn't want to die yet. Not with his brother sitting right there.

"Just…don't," Chris pleaded, "Tell us what you want. We'll get it for you."

"Me?" she said, slowing her words to screw nails in Sam's coffin, "I want my Dad back."

_Great_, Dean groaned inwardly, _The one thing that they absolutely couldn't give the bitch, and she wanted it._ _How long had it been since Sam took a breath? _

"Listen," Chris said, still trying desperately to reason with her, "Nick was killing people."

"I loved him. He was my _Dad!_"

"_Sam, c'mon man, stay with me," _Dean pleaded, words coming out all twisted. His brother had all but stopped gasping, and his eyes were drooping dangerously shut. _"Don't you give up!"_

"He'll only last a minute more," the girl said. She adjusted her grip on Sam's form as he sagged.

"Let him breathe. There's gotta be something else we can do," Chris pleaded, "To make amends."

"_Amends_?" Her face hardened. "You're all assholes. Condemning Dad for killing people…look in the damn mirror, you hunters! You _hypocrites! _How many people have _you _killed?"

"I haven't—" Chris started.

"You!" She shrieked, pointing a bony finger at Dean. She hugged Sam tightly around the neck, keeping him from falling further, "How many have _you _killed? Who gives you the right to decide what's good or evil, who lives and who dies? Well? _Hunter?_"

He ignored her. His brother's eyes were shut. _"Sam!" _he growled.

Nothing.

_No no no— "Sammy! Don't you dare!"_

The kid's eyelids twitched. Barely.

"I'm playing hunter tonight," she told him, running her fingers possessively through Sam's hair, "And like all good little hunters, I get to play god. I say this one dies. He's tainted anyway."

A growl exploded from his throat. Seeing red, he raised his .45 and fired a shot. The bullet splintered through the wall a good couple feet beside her head. Chris jumped back and crouched, hands up to shield his face.

Dean fired a second shot. _"Sam!" _The bullet went wide again, nearly nailing the corner.

Sam didn't move.

A smile. "I think he's dead now, hunter."

"_Sammy!" _Another shot. Another miss.

"We're even."

"SAM!"

He knew the word was different the moment it shot across his lips. It was a name, his brother's name, and it _finally _sounded right.

The girl turned her full attention to Dean, staring. "Did you just—"

Chris careened into her, knocking her down across Sam's body. "Dean!" he yelled, pressing her wrists against the concrete floor as she stretched catlike to scratch out his eyes, "Help!"

She kicked madly, landing blows on Chris's legs as she battled to crawl out. The doll had landed a foot away; her pupils glinted toward it.

Dean pressed his .45 to her forehead and squeezed the trigger. Her body bucked once more and then sagged underneath Chris. He pushed himself backward from it, wiping at the blood that had splattered on his face. It smeared. "Is she…is she…"

"Just help me, damn it!" Dean snapped. The words poured out of him effortlessly, like something had flicked a switch deep inside of him. About damn time, and much too late. He pushed against the daughter's body to get the weight off Sam, glad when Chris stooped down to help. Once she was out of the way he grabbed his brother's shoulders and spun him onto his back. Sam's body flopped. Fingers dug against his throat, searching.

"He's not breathing. You need to start CPR and…oh god," Chris choked, shaking as he spread his arms wide in the space, searching, "Oh god, Brandon's not here. He isn't here. I…I have to…"

He ran out. Probably back to the room, Dean couldn't bring himself to care. Sam didn't have a pulse.

"No," Dean groaned, starting compressions automatically. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay, right? I got this," he told him, leaning down and forcing a breath into his lungs. He started more compressions.

Air.

Compressions.

Air.

"Goddamn it man!" Dean hollered at his brother's lifeless form. He pounded his fist against Sam's chest, sure that something cracked. Was that two somethings now? Or three?

He took another deep breath and gave it to Sam. His chest rose with the air, then nothing. "C'mon Sammy, _don't_," he pleaded, slapping him hard across the face, "I need you here."

He slammed his hand down again, again, AGAIN, all restraint gone. There was no point in being careful. If Sam stayed dead—_oh god, no—_it didn't matter if he hurt him, or if he had a few cracked ribs. _He's not dead, he can't—_

His thoughts were cut off as Sam jolted up, nearly knocking heads with Dean in his ascent. Sam collided heavily against him, coughing in dry heaves. "That's it," Dean spoke, relief flowing in a voice rough from lack of use as he fisted his brother's shirt, "That's it. You with me?"

Sam gulped oxygen like there wasn't enough air in the room to fill his lungs. His head reeled. Dizzy and in pain, a spark of remembrance fought its way through all the fog. His brain ordered his limbs into defense mode. _Where was she—she was right there—but then—_

"Sam!" Dean shouted, trying to keep a hold on his brother as he lashed out, wild. He took an elbow to throat and leaned back. It didn't help. _Why did his arms have to get so damn long? _"Shit. Stop it, Sam, it's me. Sam. It's me!"

Sam only struck out harder. "No, can't…" he croaked out, "Where's…? I need to—need find—"

As the next punch barely missed his minced up shoulder, Dean smartly let go of his brother and backed out of the line of fire. "Dude, cut it out. I'm right here. You're safe," he said levelly. _Brain damage? No. Hell no. He's just disoriented._ "The crazy daughter's dead, Sam. I shot her."

A flicker of sanity appeared in his eyes. "Dead?"

"Yep. We're going to celebrate later. You know, as soon as you can form sentences. You're paying."

"Celebrate…what? But I…pay?"

"Wow," Dean muttered, worry building. Sam still hadn't really focused on him yet. He wanted to move closer, but wasn't sure if it would freak him out again, "Okay, you know what Sammy? Forget sentences. Let's start with the basics. Who am I?"

"Where's Dean?"

His heart sank. _God, he couldn't have been without oxygen for that long. _"Sam. It's _me,_" he said with a twinge of desperation, "I'm right here. You almost died, you're just…out of it." _And scaring the shit out of me, bro. _

"Liar," Sam mumbled, still looking away. He inhaled, breathing still uneven and heavily asthmatic, "Dean can't…"

Another coughing fit broke loose, and while Dean waited patiently for more it seemed as though that was all the explanation Sam was set on giving him. It didn't matter. He knew what the last word would've been: talk. _Dean can't talk._ He smirked. "You're overanalyzing this, college boy." He reached out and grabbed Sam's arm.

"Don't!"

"Shut up, Sam. Look at me."

"Get off," he snarled.

"No. Look at me. Come on."

Sam looked at him. _Really _looked. "Dean?"

"Yeah."

"_Dean_?"

"Yeah, Sam," he repeated, allowing himself to smile as he was finally recognized.

"It's you?"

"Of course it's me. Who else were you expecting?"

Eyes narrowed, considering. "Her."

"Sorry to disappoint. She's out for the count."

"Already said," Sam mumbled, suddenly all too aware of the splitting headache ravaging his mind. He brought a hand up and rubbed at it halfheartedly. "Thought she killed you."

"You…what?" Dean said, rapping him lightly on the arm. "That hurts, bro. Didn't know you thought so little of my gun slinging prowess."

Sam snorted.

"On the other hand, your oxygen starved brain might be the culprit for that misjudgment. How many brain cells of yours did she just suffocate? Tragedy."

"Shut up, head…hurts. Ribs?"

Eyebrows rose. "Yeah, about that. I'll shut up once I'm satisfied you're all there and making sense. As of this moment, you're really not making a good case for yourself. Any chance I can get a full sentence soon? The next decade, maybe?"

"Gimme minute. Need air."

"That's what happens when you get suffocated, bro." He moved an arm to gently support Sam when he noticed him teetering off-balance. As Sam took a few more difficult breaths, Dean glanced toward the exit, unable to quite push down the guilty twinge from letting Chris run out—_alone_—after Brandon. But the homicidal girl was dead, right? And Chris was a doctor. He could take care of it, at least until Sam was…back, mentally aware, _not _choking on the goddamn air. Just a few more minutes. "While we're on the subject," he said aloud, "You need to stop making new friends. They have this nasty habit of trying to kill you."

"_Not_ friend," Sam ground out, managing to slow his breathing to an almost normal rate. His throat burned savagely with each breath, every word, aggravated further by the stabbing pain in his ribs.

"Could have fooled me with all the hugging going on."

"We weren't…" Sam cut off suddenly. He paused, mind racing to catch up, and pushed himself back. "Dean."

"Yeah?"

"You're talking."

He grinned. "I wondered how long it'd take you to notice. Your observation skills have really—"

Sam lunged, and Dean found himself with an arm full of little brother. "You're _talking_," he breathed.

"Yeah Sam," he said, feeling his brother's grip tighten at the affirmation. Smiling, he gave his shoulder a quick squeeze and rested for a moment, satisfied when he could feel that Sam's breaths really were evening out. He pushed him back gently. "Sit up. I'm happy about it too, but why don't you focus on breathing open air for a bit. I don't really want you suffocating yourself against my jacket."

A smirk. "Wasn't."

"Wasn't?" Dean snorted, "Wasn't? That's the answer I get? God, it's good I know you so well, or you'd just sound ridiculous. Why don't you work on ramping your sentences up to two words each? I know it'll be challenging, but I'm sure a smartass like you can manage."

"Whatever, jerk."

With that, Dean knew that his brother was fine. He was still too pale for his liking, and needless to say he wouldn't be running any marathons for the next month or so, but he was aware enough to joke around and—gloriously—he wasn't dead.

"We need to go," he said firmly, making the decision to move. Standing unsteadily—he _had _just broken out of the hospital, after all—he offered a hand Sam. "Come on."

Sam grasped his wrist and stood. Wavered. Stayed up. "They okay?" he asked, guessing what had Dean worried.

"No idea," Dean admitted. He kept a hand at Sam's back as he walked him toward the exit.

Sam smiled faintly. "Dean. I'm fine. Really."

"I know," Dean said simply. He didn't remove his hand.

**Please REVIEW! Only one chapter left. **


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